


Born to Live, Made to Die

by fullmetal anime (sunkelles)



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types
Genre: Elements of 2003 Lust, Elements of Brotherhood and 2003, Gen, Gender Issues, Greed! Hughes, Homunculus Maes Hughes, Homunculus Riza Hawkeye, Homunculus Roy Mustang, Hughesmunculus, Lust! Mustang, Unreliable Narrator, Wrath! Hawkeye, nonbinary Envy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-09
Updated: 2018-06-24
Packaged: 2019-04-16 08:46:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 20,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14161095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunkelles/pseuds/fullmetal%20anime
Summary: Father makes more and more human-based homunculi, but he didn’t count on one crucial detail: it’s far harder to take the humanity out of them.Especially when you make homunculi out of Maes Hughes, Riza Hawkeye and Roy Mustang.





	1. Love

**Author's Note:**

> chapter 1 originally posted april 9, 2018
> 
> this is an idea that i've been working on for almost a month now, and i'm really excited to be able to put it out there. it's still VERY much a wip, but i have a clear idea of where i'm going with it and what i want to say. homunculi give us the opportunity to say so much about what makes humans HUMANS and what humanity even is, and it's been an absolute joy working with these characters so far. 
> 
> this work, as i mentioned in the tags, will be melding elements of the 03 canon into my au version of brotherhood. you don't need to be familiar with 03 to understand what's going on, but there will be some elements where if you're like ???? why did you make THAT creative choice, sunkelles???? it's possible that it's just an element from 03 
> 
> also since we're talking about content, here's a few things that this story will contain that i haven't figured out how to convey in the summary yet and/or didn't want to tag because it would be a HUGE disappointment for someone to be seeking that particular thing and then find a story that doesn't even contain it yet 
> 
> elements of 03 lust  
> ishvalan (and minor xingese) culture building  
> the ishvalan brothers from 03 leo and rick  
> royyyaaaiiiiii  
> edling

Humans are born. They come into the world with no memories or knowledge, and they have to slowly learn about the world around them. Humans have to grow, both physically and as individuals. They have to forge their own paths and identities to slowly figure out who they will be. They live. They age. They die.

Homunculi, however, are made. They are made adult, identity already forged, with all the memories and knowledge that they need. They are made perfectly according to their Father’s specifications. That's the way they live their lives, ageless as their Father himself. Death is optional, but not required. 

* * *

 

 

 

Greed knows exactly what he is when he springs into being. There isn’t much for him to learn when everything he needs to know has been written into his very being. He opens his eyes and sees Father looking down at him, already looking like some kind of god with his long blond hair and long white robes.

Greed supposes that’s the point. Father’s _trying_ to become a god. Dress for the job you want and not the job you have and all that.

“Good morning Father,” Greed says, fumbling at his bindings, “lovely weather we’re having.” He would really like for Father to cut him down now. He knows that Father had to tie him down to ensure that the human used to produce him didn’t kill itself writhing in the pain of Greed’s creation, but really, now his arms just hurt a lot. It’s not like its necessary to restrain _him_. It just seems excessive to leave him hanging like this.

Envy peaks out around Father, and their bright green plume of hair looks even more ridiculous beside Father’s soft blond locks. Somehow, palm tree hair is the one looking down at _Greed_ in disgust.

“Ew,” they say, “what is _wrong_ with him?” Greed instinctively moves his hand to try to touch his face, but the bindings prevent him. He doesn’t know what he looks like, but it has to be good, right? He’s Greed. He doesn’t have anything but the best of the best. His body can’t be any different.

“There’s nothing wrong with Greed,” Father says, “He’s a human-based homunculus, so he looks more human than you do, Envy.”

“He’s like Wrath,” Envy says. The way that they say “like Wrath” gives Greed the impression that Envy thinks that “like Wrath” is a bad thing to be.

“I just don’t get why you’re making all these homunculi with human-bases now,” Envy says, “Me, Sloth, Gluttony, we’re just fine, aren’t we?”

“The human-based homunculi have their purpose, while you have yours,” Father says serenely.

“Come on,” Envy says, “you’ve already made a Fuhrer. What else could you need?”

“I made Greed with a specific purpose in mind,” Father says firmly, “now Envy, say hello to your brother.”

“Hello,” Envy grumbles.

“Hello,” Greed replies, as sweetly as possible, “Can you _please_ let me down now?” Father doesn’t look entirely pleased, but he works at Greed’s bonds and lets him down.

“Thank you,” Greed huffs. If his inflection makes it sound more like _fuck you_ , well, it’s only because Father left him hanging far longer than he needed to.

“Now, say hello to your sibling, Greed,” Father says, “properly this time.”

“Nice to meet you, sib,” Greed says. He sticks out his hand for Envy to shake, but Envy crosses their arms and huffs. Then, they turn around to leave.

“I’m gonna go fuck with some humans’ heads,” Envy says, giving a dismissive wave back to them, “call me if you need me.”

“I don’t think they like me,” Greed says. Greed doesn’t like that. He wants _everyone_ to like him.

“They’ll warm to you, eventually,” Father says, “it’s natural for siblings to fight.”

“Of course,” Greed says. He thinks that sounds right, but he doesn’t exactly have experience in the matter.

“Are you having any troubles with the soul that used to inhabit your body?” Father asks him.

“No,” Greed says, “Can’t hear anything but a dull roar.” He can hear the faint screaming of the souls in his philosopher’s stone, but there are no clear voices in his head.

“Good,” Father says, “Wrath did not have troubles either, but when creating a human-based homunculus.” Father trails off. Greed takes that to mean it was a possibility. A human soul could, hypothetically, keep its consciousness and some hold on the body after a homunculus took over its body. Whoever the human that occupied Greed’s new body was, their spirit must not be strong enough to even put up a fight against him. Greed appreciates that. It means that he doesn’t have to fight to keep this body his and his alone.

Greed does not share. He wants everything this world has to offer, and he refuses to share with anyone but his fellow homunculi and his Father. They’re going to be gods; there isn’t any room for anyone else. Except, perhaps, the sacrifices. Those are required to build the new world order and they don’t have to die to acquire it.

Father might let them live if he really wants to. 

Greed’s not entirely invested in the idea either way. What does he care what Father decides to do with five measly humans? The only measly human he cares about is the one whose body he now occupies, and that’s only to the extent that he cares that he like, has a body now. That’s pretty cool. He can get behind having a physical form.

“Now, Greed,” Father says, “I will show you what I made you to do.”

 

Father, did, in fact, have a specific role that he wanted Greed to play. He places Greed in charge of information. Or lack of information. Perhaps the best term for his job is “disinformation”. He’s in charge of spinning stories to make the military look better, containing information about what’s really going on, and containing leaks when it comes to that. It doesn’t come to that often.

People, by and large, are self-centered. They don’t notice things that don’t concern them or their immediate loved ones. Greed can respect that. He wants everything for himself too. He isn’t, however, getting it very quickly.

The plan is moving so slowly, and his job is _so boring._ He tries to make his own fun, but there just isn’t much of it. He calls Wrath _fury_ in public and pretends that he’s just accidentally mispronouncing Fuhrer, but there’s only so much fun he can milk from that. There’s only so much fun he can milk from this life and position he’s been given.

He should be acquiring that endless list of things he wants. He feels impotent and trapped. Most of all, Greed feels _bored_. Greed wants everything, but boredom is like a negative number. It doesn’t add to what he already has; it takes away from it. Greed wants nothing to do with things that detract from his existence.

Greed has to find his own cures to boredom, because it seems that Father didn’t build them into his schedule. Maybe it’s because boredom is such a base, human emotion. His children are supposed to be above that, supposedly. But Greed is bored and Greed doesn’t care what he’s supposed to be _above,_ he just cares what he is.

 

He walks down the street, thinking about how he is and he’d prefer to not be bored anymore. Apparently, clumsy is another thing that he is. Father didn’t make him all that perfect after all. Greed can’t even just drop his glove, he accidentally tosses his glove six feet away from him into a mud puddle. Great. Just great. He’s going to have to walk all the way over there, and then bend down and get it himself, not to mention how _nasty_ it’s going to be after sitting in that mud puddle.

But someone else beats him to it: a woman with a light brown bob of hair and sparkling green eyes.

“Here,” she says, sending him a smile that warms him to his core, “let me get that for you.” She picks his glove up off the ground, shakes it a little to get most of the water off, and then hands it him. It’s such a small gesture, but it’s so sweet and she’s smiling so wide that it warms him to his core.

“Thank you,” he says, stumbling over his words. He doesn’t know how to convey just how much that meant to him. No one’s ever done him a favor like that. Greed knows he hasn’t been alive that long, but still, it feels earth-shattering.

“It’s no problem,” she says, “I’m a little closer to the ground than you are.” He sends her a confused look.

“What do you mean?”

“I was just calling myself short,” she says, biting her lip, “it wasn’t really that funny.” _Oh. OH!_ He gets it now, and Greed laughs hard.

“You don’t have to pretend that it’s funny,” she says.

“No.” he says, trying to stop his laughter long enough to talk properly, “I’m laughing for real.”

“Really?” she asks. She doesn’t look like she believes him. She doesn’t sound like it either.

“Really,” he promises, “the joke just didn’t hit me to begin with.”

“Most guys don’t seem to like my sense of humor.”

“I like everything about you,” he says. Then _she_ bursts into laughter.

“Oh that’s a hoot,” she says, and he can’t tell what that’s supposed to mean.

“What is?” Greed asks.

“Liking everything about me,” the woman says, “you don’t know anything about me.” It doesn’t sound self-deprecating or like she’s trying to put him down either. It just sounds like she’s stating a fact.

“Well,” he says, “I don’t know everything about you, but I’d like to.” She looks taken aback, and he can’t tell if that’s a good thing or not. He can't tell how she feels about the comment, but he decides that he should just press on. It’s not like he’s going to get a date with her if he doesn’t ask, and right now, Greed doesn’t want anything more than a date with this beautiful woman with the sparkling green eyes and the sunshine smile.

“Would you like to go to dinner sometime?” he asks, surprisingly nervous. He’s _Greed._ His job centers around talking his way into and out of messes. He’s supposed to be smooth, but he’s never felt less confident in his short life.

“Maybe if you told me your name,” She says.

“I’m Maes Hughes,” Greed says, because he kind of is. That’s the name that’s on all of his military paperwork. He can’t exactly tell her that he’s _Greed._ She grins.

“Now we’re getting somewhere,” she says. Then, she takes out her purse and digs through it, taking out a pad of paper and a ballpoint pen. She scribbles her number on the top sheet and hands it to him.

“I’m Gracia,” she tells him, “You should give me a call later and we can get the details worked out.” The world shifts on its axis. Greed doesn’t want _women_ now. Now, Greed wants one particular woman.

 

One date turns to two which turns to three and four and soon Greed can’t even count them anymore. He thinks that he’s in love.

 

It’s on one of their dates that he decides to make a suggestion. They’re both done eating, and have been for nearly half an hour. They’re both nursing their drinks, keeping the conversation going, but the waitstaff can tell that they’re loitering. He’s gotten a few too many poorly concealed glares for his liking.

He twirls his straw inside his drink, and takes a sip as he thinks about how to proceed. At this point in the date, they only have two options: end the night, or come up with something else to do. He doesn’t really want the night to end.

“You know,” Greed says, “that radio program you like so much is running a special tonight.” It’s an adventure program, and Greed can’t say that he’s entirely invested in it but Gracia _loves_ it, and he’d listen to screaming cats with her if that’s what she wanted.

“We should listen to it at your house after this,” Gracia says.

“You know, I’ve never been to your place,” he says. She doesn’t say anything in response.

“Sorry,” he says, “I don’t want to push, it’s just… It’s kind of weird that you’ve been to my place but I’ve never been to yours.” At least, Greed thinks that it’s weird. Father didn’t exactly make sure that Greed understood human dating etiquette when he made him.

“I have a daughter,” Gracia blurts out.

“That’s awesome,” Greed says, “then I could see her when I come over.” Gracia seems confused by this response.

“Really?” she says, laughing nervously, “that’s normally a deal-breaker.”

“A deal-breaker?” Greed asks, “sounds like a perk to me.” Why would he be disappointed about having another human? A smaller version of his favorite human? Why wouldn’t he think that’s the coolest thing ever?

“Well,” she says, “normally.” She takes a moment to compose herself, and he can tell she’s grasping for the right words.  “ _Normally_ men aren’t excited about dating a woman who already has a baby.” He nods. He doesn’t understand that, but he knows that humans are weird about things like blood and marriage.

“What happened with the dad?”

“He got scared as soon as I told him I was pregnant,” she says, twirling her straw around absently in her glass of water, “I’m fairly sure he moved out of the city.”

“What a _coward,”_ Greed says, and he means it.

“We weren’t married,” Gracia says, and she sounds embarrassed about it, “it’s not like he had to stay.”

“You’re the most wonderful woman in the world and he just left? He left you and your baby who, I might add, must be the most beautiful baby on earth, just cause he was scared? He didn’t deserve you. It doesn’t matter if you were married or not, he should have stayed.” _Greed_ would never leave Gracia. He knows that for sure. 

“I’m glad he didn’t,” Gracia says.

“Why?” Greed asks. He doesn’t understand why Gracia would be glad that this man didn’t treat her right. No one should ever mistreat her.

“Because then I wouldn’t have met you,” she says. Greed feels something wash over him, and he can’t even respond. He doesn’t know what he would say that could even _compare_ to that.

“Come on,” Gracia says, taking his hand, “I think it’s time you met the most beautiful baby on earth.” They walk through the town, holding hands and enjoying the nice weather, and they finally make it to Gracia’s little apartment.

The door opens to a little living room and he sees a girl sitting in a light blue armchair, cradling a tiny baby in her arms. At least, Greed thinks that she’s tiny for a baby. He doesn’t have much experience in the matter. If nothing else, she’s tiny compared to other, full-sized humans.

“Thank you for watching her,” Gracia says, walking over to the armchair. She takes the baby out of the babysitter’s arms and cradles her gently in her own arms.

“Is this your new boyfriend?” the girl asks as she stands up and walks over to them, sending Gracia an almost suggestive look.

“Yes,” Gracia says, “it is.”

“Nice to finally meet you,” the girl says, taking his hand and shaking it, “I’d sure hope you’re worth all this babysitting.”

“He is, Katie,” Gracia says. Katie shrugs in a way that says _if you say so._ Greed rips out his wallet and gives her a couple of bills. He’s not sure how many and what denomination, but it’s probably more than the going rate for babysitting. Gracia does not look pleased. Katie, however, _definitely does._

“Nice,” she says, clutching the bills as tightly as she can, “you know, I think this one might be worth your while, Gracie.”

“Goodbye, Katie,” Gracia says, rolling her eyes. Katie makes her way out the door, waving goodbye as she goes.

“I do pay her, you know,” Gracia says the moment that the door slams behind Katie.

“I know,” Greed says, because Gracia is not the sort of woman who’d ever take advantage of someone, “it was just a bribe.”

“A bribe?” Gracia demands. She doesn’t sound impressed. 

“What,” he says, “I want your friends to like me.”

“She’s family, actually,” Gracia says, “she’s my niece.”

“Oh,” Greed says.

“You know,” Gracia says, in a way that sounds the manufactured sort of casual, “we’re having a family dinner in about a month. You should come.”

“That sounds amazing,” Greed says, because it does. Gracia wants him to be a part of her life. She wants this to be a long term thing. He doesn’t think he’s ever heard something as amazing as that. Gracia smiles at him.

“Do you want to hold her?” she asks. Greed can’t even bring himself to speak, and just nods. Gracia hands him the baby, and helps him adjust his arms so that he will hold her in the right position. Then, she lets go of him, allowing him to hold her all by himself. She feels warm and solid in his arms, and suddenly, he realizes just how tiny she is, just how _fragile_ she is. He’s stronger than humans. He has skin that can stop bullets, can meld his hands into claws to stab through hearts.

She is so small and he is so dangerous, and he suddenly he feels the knowledge of that weighing down on him. He could crush this tiny, beautiful thing in his arms without even thinking about it.

“Maes,” Gracia says, looking down at the baby with a look of complete love, “meet Elicia.” The baby giggles, and wraps her hand around his finger, clasping it tightly with her itty bitty fingers. Her little green eyes twinkle just like her mom’s do. She has light brown hair dusting her tiny head, and Greed feels something stirring inside of him. He looks down at this beautiful baby girl in awe. She’s the most awe-inspiring thing he’s ever seen. He desperately wants to protect her.

Then, he realizes something. He wants to be Gracia’s husband. He wants to be Elicia’s father. Greed might want everything, but he’s never wanted anything more strongly in his life.  

Greed does not know how this happened. He was not made to be this way, but he is. He is now, and he would never go back.


	2. Amalgamation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wrath is remade. Ishval is decimated. Roy Mustang is manipulated, and two separate consciousnesses are amalgamated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> posted may 6, 2018 with some quotes taken directly from fmab episode 31 and fma 03 episode 15. 
> 
> this chapter took me a month to finish, but i'm really pleased with the results! i've been trying some new stuff with characterization, unreliability and form with this so hopefully it paid off :) 
> 
> more in depth warnings are in the end note if you need them but the main one is canon typical level of war violence

Humans are born. Homunculi are made.  Wrath and his new human host meet somewhere in the middle of that.

 

* * *

 

 

 

 _What happened?_ a woman’s voice asks, directly into Wrath’s brain, _why can’t I move?_ Wrath doesn’t know what to make out of that.

“Welcome back to the land of the living,” a grating voice says. The voice is grating, but least it’s outside of his head. It only takes a few moments for Wrath to place the voice as Greed’s. Then Wrath opens his eyes and sees both Greed and Father looking down at him.

 _Who are you?_ the woman asks, _what’s going on?_

“That’s no way to greet your sibling, Greed,” Father says sternly.

 _Sibling?_ the woman’s voice asks, _what does that mean? Why can’t I move?_

No one else responds.

 _WHAT IS HAPPENING?_ the woman shouts in that same voice. Wrath would call it earsplitting, but that doesn’t quite apply when it’s directly inside his head instead of outside of it. Brain-splitting might be a better word for it.

“Would someone shut this woman up?” Wrath groans, grabbing his forehead. Instead of shutting up, the woman starts screaming. He groans in response. All he wants is some peace and quiet in his own head, please. Is that too much to ask for?

“You can still hear her?” Father asks, “How unfortunate.”

“Who is she?” Wrath demands. All Wrath knows is that this woman is screaming inside his head and giving him a splitting headache.

“That’s the former owner of your body,” Father says, “she must have a strong will if she’s giving you trouble.  Neither Greed nor the previous Wrath ever had any trouble with their hosts.”

 _I won’t stop, either,_ she shouts into his brain. Of course Wrath had to get the fighter.

“Wait,” Wrath says, the words finally clicking through the screeching in his brain, “There was another Wrath?” It’s so hard to focus on what Father and Greed are talking about with this human screaming in his ears.

“Of course,” Greed says, “he was Fuhrer of Amestris.” Wrath thinks that he can almost remember that. Or maybe it’s just him wishing that he could, he can never tell with memories.

“Fuhrer of Amestris,” Wrath says. He doesn’t know what this woman is, but he can assume that it’s a downgrade. Envy steps out of the shadows and into the light. They look annoyed and impatient.

“Come _on_ Father,” Envy says, “I just want to start this massacre already. I already know what form I’m going to take when I kill that first Ishvalan kid.”

 _You’re shooting a child?!?_ The woman’s voice shouts in his brain.

“We have damage control to think of first, Envy,” Father says, “we no longer hold the Fuhrer, and we have to make sure that we spin this properly.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Greed says, “I know the drill. Spin the story, control the media, yada yada yada.”

“Greed,” Father scolds, “could you take this seriously? It might present a challenge.” Greed actually rolls his eyes at that.

“The people of Amestris have been at war for more than a hundred years,” Greed says, “won’t be hard to convince them not to cry over some dead brown kids. We just need to make sure they think the army was provoked. Hell, if we convince them the Fuhrer’s death was an assassination by the Ishvalans we won’t even _need_ anything else.” Greed laughs a little, and a determined look settles on his face. It makes him look far more dangerous than he did before. Now he looks more like a proper homunculus should.

“This won’t be hard, Father.”

“Don’t be so cocky, Greed,” Father says, “that’s Pride’s domain.” Greed shrugs, and goes back to looking like an average, laid back human.

“It’s not cocky if it’s true.”

“Can we just be done with this?” Envy whines, “I want to shoot that kid already.” Father says something else soothing and wise, and the woman in his head keeps shouting about how wrong she thinks this conversation is and it’s just all so _much._ Wrath is a being of calm, cool rage hidden just beneath the surface, ready to spring forth at any moment, and sometimes, that rage does get the better of him.

“What happened to the old Wrath!” he shouts into the chatter. All other voices stop, abruptly, and all heads turn to him.

“The old Wrath was killed by the newly made Lust,” Father says smoothly, “I decommissioned her shortly afterwards.” Wrath tries to remember what happened, but his mind comes up blank. The woman occupying his head won’t stop shouting.

“What do you need of me, Father? I doubt this woman was as important as the Fuhrer,” Wrath says. He knows that pride isn’t becoming (he isn’t Pride, he shouldn’t act like him) but his wrath rears its ugly head when he feels slighted.

“But why her, Father?” Wrath asks, “why did you choose her?” Wrath doesn’t understand why he went from being the _Fuhrer of Amestris_ to a civilian woman. He feels strange inside a woman’s body, not at home the way he assumes he would inside a man’s. It reminds him of those articles in the papers about people who transitioned from one gender to another.

He never understood those before. What does gender matter? Why does the body you’re put in affect that? But now, he thinks he understands, at least a little. He does not like this body he’s been shoved in. It makes him feel deeply uncomfortable.

“I chose her for my own reasons, which I may reveal to you and I _may not_ ,” Father says firmly, “the previous Wrath was of great value and use to me. We will make sure that you are too.”

“Yes Father,” Wrath says, because there’s really nothing else for him to do. Father leaves, then, trying to take care of some other task for the impending Promised Day. Greed, however, does not. Wrath kind of wishes that he would.

“So,” Greed says, “you’re the new Wrath.”

“Yes,” Wrath says tightly, “you watched Father make me, you would know.”

“Do you remember anything from being the old one?

“No,” Wrath says.

“Nice,” Greed says, “the last Wrath was an asshole.”

“I might be an asshole too,” Wrath points out.

“At least you’re a prettier asshole,” Greed says. Wrath finds that he _really_ doesn’t like being called that word.

“Don’t call me pretty,” Wrath says.

“Yeesh,” Greed says, “it was just a joke.” Then Greed’s face turns embarrassed.

“Wait, are you- are you still a guy? Or are you like Envy? Gender-neutral words?” Greed looks very determined to get whatever it is right, which Wrath appreciates a little. He may still be a fool, but he’s a fool who’s making an attempt.

“Call me brother,” Wrath says. The word feels right to him, and he’s glad he says it.

“Okay,” Greed says, seeming much more comfortable now, “ _brother._ You’re my favorite brother, you know.” Wrath can’t help but crack a small smile.

“What about me?” Greed asks, “am I your favorite brother?”

“Jury’s still out,” Wrath says. He expects Greed to leave then, really. He doesn’t know where Greed would even take the conversation from there. Apparently, Greed does, though.

“You know,” he says, “you’re Father’s first redo.”

“I am?” Wrath asks.

“Yup,” Greed says, “you’re the first homunculus that he’s ever made twice.”

“He said that he decommissioned Lust,” Wrath says, he does not add “for killing me” onto that, “so he’s going to have to make a new Lust, too.”

“You’re right,” Greed says, sounding strangely excited about the prospect, “he will.”

“What’s your point?” Wrath asks.

“That proves that Father’s not perfect,” Greed says. Wrath doesn’t know how he feels right now but it’s _wrong wrong wrong._

“You can’t say that,” Wrath says, the rage that lies just below his surface at all points threatening to peak through.  It sounds like _blasphemy._

 _Of course your father isn’t perfect,_ Hawkeye says, a little smugly, _I’m still here._

“Father made us in his image,” Wrath says, “and _we’re_ perfect.” They’re homunculi. That’s their purpose- to be the perfect vessels for parts of Father he wants to exorcise from himself- the new species for him to elevate above the humans. Greed shrugs.

 _Sure you are,_ Hawkeye mutters, and it’s about the first thing she’s said at a normal volume.

“Are we?” he asks. It doesn’t sound as much like a gotcha as a legitimate question.

“Yes,” Wrath says firmly.

“I just don’t know,” Greed says.

“We are,” Wrath says, “humans are slaves to their emotions, while we should be able to hold them in check.” Hawkeye laughs inside his head, obviously unimpressed by his reasoning.

“Can we?” Greed says.

“I didn't cut your head off where you stood when you said Father was not perfect,” Wrath says smoothly.

“And you wanted to and you could have,” Greed says, sounding a little nervous, “got it.”

“But I didn’t,” Wrath says. Greed nods.

“Got it,” he says again. Then, the conversation is finally over. Wrath would heave a sigh of relief at being freed from Greed’s incessant chatter, that is, if he were not consigned to a lifetime of chatter inside his own head.

He does not know how he’s going to get through this until he finally gets Miss Hawkeye to shut up

Father sends Envy ahead to shoot a child and give them the opportunity to start a massacre, and orders Wrath to get Hawkeye under control. Wrath tries everything he can to get Hawkeye to shut up and take her proper place as one of the screaming, nameless souls inside his philosopher’s stone. Wrath tries ignoring her. That doesn’t work.

 

Wrath tries to cut off Hawkeye’s connection to her senses. That doesn’t work.

Wrath tries fighting her with all his strength, forcing her into the tightest headlock until she finally suffocates. That doesn’t work either. Apparently, Riza Hawkeye is here to stay. He’s taken up residence in her body and she’s taken up residence in his brain.

The most he can do is ignore her and pretend that she isn’t constantly screaming in the back of his mind, trying to make him finally break down and stop whatever it is she objects to so strongly.

Wrath hopes that maybe she’ll shut up once they get to Ishval, but he highly doubts it. She’s only given him a few moments peace since he took over her body.

 

 

When he does get over to Ishval, she does not shut up. She gets louder when he starts killing people with her body. Apparently, she objects to that concept. Who knew? Sometimes, she’s even able to wrest control of the body away from him long enough to stop him from pulling the trigger.

It doesn’t make much difference, because Wrath will just kill someone else once he takes control back, but it’s highly annoying. Wrath doesn’t like feeling like a passenger in this body that should rightfully belong to him.

Wrath has been in Ishval about two weeks when he meets a familiar face, at least, a face familiar to Hawkeye. Hawkeye took control of the body about an hour before, and she’s always weaker immediately after wrestling him for control. Wrath appreciates that, because with the anxiety Wrath can feel radiating out of her corner of the brain, he knows she would have put up a fight right now if she had the energy.

“Hawkeye?” a man asks, with shocked recognition on his face.  

 _Who is that?_ Wrath asks. Hawkeye does not respond.  

“You never told me you decided to join up,” he says, and he sounds a little hurt, actually.

 _It’s because I didn’t,_ Hawkeye says.

Wrath says, “It was a last minute decision.” The man nods his head. Wrath can’t tell if he completely accepted that explanation, but he’s not questioning it either.

“Was it related to whatever happened to your eye?” Wrath nods. The more vague he keeps “whatever happened” to the eye the better.

“Maybe you should have stayed away anyway,” he looks down at his gloved hands, “it’s hell over here.” Ah yes, most humans actually feel guilt about what’s happening here in Ishval. Most humans actually feel remorseful about the lives that they take.

 _A hell you made,_ Hawkeye says. Wrath ignores her, like he normally does. Wrath decides that he should probably take part of her sentiment in his response to this man, though. He has to keep up the illusion of being her, after all.

Wrath says, “I thought we were supposed to be helping people?” From what he knows about Hawkeye, he knows that this is something she would say and he suspects that it would be something this man would agree with too.

“I did too.” If Greed didn’t come up to them right now, Wrath honestly isn’t sure what he’d say. Greed crouches down beside him, much to Mustang’s surprise.

“Yo Hawkeye, who’s your friend?” Greed asks.

“Maybe you should tell me who _you_ are first?” the man shoots back. Greed laughs.

“Oh I like this one,” he says, gesturing to him, “I’m Maes Hughes.” Hawkeye’s friend sends him a look, and Greed finally gets the hint.

“Oh,” Greed says, “you want a _rank_ too. I’m a Major.” Greed might be in military intelligence and not actual ground work, but he is definitely a Major.

“I’m a Major too,” Hawkeye's friend says, “newly certified State Alchemist Roy Mustang,”

He smiles at Wrath, and adds, “Thanks to you.”

“Oh,” Greed says, “you’re the Flame Alchemist? I’ve heard _all_ about you.” Wrath knows that Hawkeye somehow helped Mustang become the alchemist that he is today, but he has no idea how that happened. He’s really glad that knowledge isn’t required to send the man a slight smile and nod.

“What have you heard?” Mustang asks, with all the tired resignation of someone who’s had rumors spread about him to hell and back.

“Just about everything, Hawkeye won’t shut up about you,” Greed says with a teasing twinkle in his eyes. Wrath has never talked about Roy Mustang. Wrath doesn’t know a damn thing about him beyond the fact that he’s the Flame Alchemist and that Hawkeye cares about him.

“That’s not true,” Wrath says at the same time that Hawkeye does inside his head. Hawkeye actually starts laughing inside his brain, then.

 _Jinx, you owe me a soda,_ she says dryly. Wrath has absolutely no idea what to do with that.

“You talk about me?”

 _I do not,_ Hawkeye says indignantly.

“I do not,” Wrath says, just as indignantly. Mustang grins in a way that says he does not believe that in any way.

“Do so,” Greed taunts like a toddler. Mustang laughs, and suddenly there’s something between the three of them, something easy and familiar and warm. The conversation just keeps going and going, banter flying easily between the three of them.

 

It happens often, the three of them just getting together to talk. Wrath doesn’t enjoy the company of humans, or really any of other homunculi most of the time, but there’s something about being around these two that he enjoys. Outside of any research Father wants him doing or other homunucli duties, Wrath just wants to do this,.

 _What do you two even want with Roy?_ Hawkeye demands.

And the thing is, Wrath doesn’t know. He doesn’t respond, and she asks again louder, and louder, and louder, until her shouted demands give him a headache. But Wrath doesn’t know why, and he doesn’t know what to do to get her to shut up. He tries to ignore her voice and hopes that she will eventually shut up.

 

 

Wrath knows that he is not the same homunculus that he was the first time Father created him. He has a different body, for one, and society attaches different expectations and stigmas upon him because it now perceives him as female. Riza Hawkeye is a different person with a different history, rank and skill set than King Bradley.

Wrath knows that his previous incarnation fought most with a sword, but he also knows that he can’t do that. It would attract too much attention coming from Riza Hawkeye’s body. She has no reason to know how to wield a sword (the practice is becoming archaic and infrequently taught) and with her unexplained eyepatch, that would draw suspicions Wrath would prefer not to deal with.

Hawkeye shot targets for fun and sport growing up, so her body has more of an inclination towards sniping anyways.

Hawkeye does not appreciate her body and skills being used to gun down civilians, and still, sometimes, is able to take over his body and stop him. Even when he’s not actively shooting anyone, Hawkeye never shuts up about it- especially when Mustang complains about the horrors of war. Mustang complains about the horrors of war often and loudly.

“I don’t know why we’re being ordered to kill the people we’re supposed to protect,” Mustang says.

Wrath knows, of course. This is all part of Father’s grand plan to create his transmutation circle and ascend to godhood. Every human life lost is just a casualty in pursuit of that goal.

 _The military doesn’t want to protect anyone,_ Hawkeye says, and she’s not wrong in the slightest. Even though his side has lost the Fuhrer, they still have enough generals and other higher ranked officials under their thumb to make sure that the military’s goals still echo their own.

“Because that’s the job,” Kimblee calls over, “this is a war and that’s what soldiers do.” Kimblee is on their side, of course, but Wrath thinks that he would think that way even if he weren’t. According to their Father, Kimblee was not hard to sway to their side. He has a clinical, detached desire to see what might happen if Father wins. It’s an almost scientific fascination coupled with a sincere lust for blood.

 _You think this is what soldiers are supposed to do?_ Hawkeye demands. Mustang almost echoes her perfectly.

“You think this is our job?” he demands. Kimblee laughs as he shrugs off Mustang’s concern, throwing each of his points back in his face. Kimblee’s mind and tongue are sharp as knives and he uses them to cut into the skin of everyone around him.

“Tell me miss,” Kimblee says, directing the question at Wrath with a smirk, “you’re not very happy to be here, are you? Well, you don’t appear to be.” Kimblee’s smirk gets even bigger, and Wrath can’t tell if it’s because Kimblee thinks he’s taunting a guilt-ridden woman or if it’s because he knows that he’s not.

“Can you honestly tell me in that split second when you take down an enemy you don’t allow yourself to feel the slightest tinge of satisfaction and pride in your skills? Well Miss Marksman?” Wrath channels Hawkeye’s terror and distress as he pretends to be horrified by the implication. Mustang grabs Kimblee by the collar, but Kimblee just keeps speaking those truths that none of the humans want to hear.

 _That’s **not** true, _ Hawkeye says, _that’s not what these soldiers signed up for._

 _It isn’t?_ Wrath shoots back.

 _No,_ Hawkeye says, _at least not on purpose._

There’s the heart of the issue. What does it matter what they meant? All of these soldiers might have sold themselves to the military with the intention of saving lives but each and every one of them ending up taking them instead. What does it matter what they meant? In the end, only their actions matter. Intention means nothing in the face of actual action.

“These people we’ve killed won’t ever forget us,” Kimblee warns. Wrath suddenly remembers a room full of shouting, dying Ishvalans and a deadly claw digging into his chest. Kimblee picks himself up off the ground and leaves Mustang to ruminate on the things that he’s said.

“He can’t be right,” Mustang says, “this isn’t what we came here for.” There’s a level of desperation in his voice that Wrath hasn’t heard before. He wants them to convince him that Kimblee’s not right, because he obviously doesn’t feel that way anymore. His shimmering hope is starting to rust over.

 _Roy,_ Hawkeye says, with deep sadness in her voice. Mustang clearly wants someone to tell him that this is okay, to reassure him that there’s still hope and everything he’s fought for hasn’t been for naught.

Wrath doesn’t even know how to go about that, especially since it’s not true.

“War is hell, Mustang” Greed tells him, “dwelling on it won’t make it better. You’ve just gotta get through it.”

“But how do you do it?” He seems like he’s groping for a reason to keep going. It sounds like he’s asking for why as much as for how. “Everyone’s been so fucked up by this war. It’s like the ghosts of everyone they killed fog up their eyes and their faces sink in shame. But you- you don't look like that. You don’t let yourself get dragged down by what you’ve done.”

 _That’s because they don’t care, Roy,_ Hawkeye says, _they’re not human. I wish you could see that._ Her words are about as effective as when the here in Ishval soldiers shout at the screen when they show horror movies. Most things Hawkeye says are that futile.

“Kimblee doesn't either,” Wrath points out.

“Kimblee is a psycho,” Hawkeye and Mustang say at the same time.

“What’s the difference between us, then?” Wrath asks.

 _There isn't one_ , Hawkeye says while Mustang says, “you’re still compassionate. You regret what you’ve done, but you just don't let yourself be dragged down by it.” Hawkeye laughs at that.

 _Oh, Roy,_ Hawkeye says, _you sweet, blind man._

“That’s because we have people to get back to,” Greed says, and he sends a pointed look from Wrath to Mustang. Then, Mustang seems to have a revelation.

“You’re right,” he says, “war is hell, but other people are what get us through it.” Then Hawkeye laughs bitterly, hysterically, until she chokes on the sound. Wrath doesn’t say anything at all.

 

 

Hawkeye called Roy a blind man, but this world doesn’t try to make him blind. This world tries to make him dead.

Wrath and Mustang walk through what constitutes a downtown here in Ishval. This is not Central City. There are no buildings with stories upwards of double digits, none that scrape the skyline, rivaling mountains with their height, but the area downtown is still wide and has buildings two or three stories high.

Even with the eyepatch, Wrath has enhanced eyesight- all of his senses sped up and enhanced. He always tries to scan the tops of the buildings for threats, but they don’t normally exist. The military has taken over most of the downtown area and it’s been hard for the Ishvalans to obtain any kind of high ground.

It’s hard to obtain the high ground when you’re a group of poorly armed civilians trying to fight off a well-armed and organized military, especially when most of your meager citizenry is already dead. But occasionally, a sniper will slip through the cracks. They’ll get on top of one of those high buildings and mow down a few officers before a different sniper takes them down and they fall to their bloody thud of a death below.

It doesn’t tend to concern Wrath. He doesn’t care much for humans, and every bit of blood spilled helps strengthen the transmutation circle, even if it’s from his side. There is one human that Wrath would like to keep alive, though, and today the shot is aimed at him.

Wrath and Mustang are walking back from the mess. It’s the time of day that the humans are the least on guard, and Wrath himself has let his guard down as much as he’s able. That’s probably why it takes him as long as it does to react when he hears the gunshot far above them.

The bullet speeds towards them, and Wrath can tell where it’s headed with sniper accuracy: Mustang’s head.

 _No_ Hawkeye shouts in his brain.

 “No!” Wrath shouts out loud. His body surges forward, and it throws Mustang to the ground. The bullet doesn’t reach his head, but it doesn’t miss him either. The bullet just tears into his shoulder instead.

Wrath is _seething_ and he can feel Hawkeye seething within him too. They seethe together in harmony, him melting into her and her melting into him until there is just a single feeling, a single being: them. That bullet almost killed Mustang, or rather, whoever shot that bullet almost killed Mustang.

They look up, scanning the skyline. Then they catch sight of the sniper, so far above them and in such a difficult position to hit. There’s a moment of doubt, but then a flash of confidence: _they can do this._

They draw their gun, take off the safety and loose a bullet all faster than Wrath could ever dream. The bullet hits the sniper, and the sniper falls over the back of the building. They hear a thud in the distance as the body hits the ground.

“Damn,” Mustang says, voice strained, “I knew you shot, but I didn’t know you shot like _that.”_

“I’m a sniper,” they say casually, “comes with the territory.” Mustang forces a smile.

“Least I’m not dead,” he says. Yes, he’s right, at least he’s not dead. Shots to the shoulder, while unpleasant, are almost never fatal. With some minor surgery he should be back to his normal self. They feel the rage subside, back to the normal amount that Wrath always feels. Suddenly, it’s not _they_ anymore. It’s just Wrath, one set of feelings, one set of thoughts. Hawyeke doesn’t have some retort about that not really being her. She doesn’t say anything. Wrath’s head is silent. Silent, after months and months of sarcastic comments or arguing or outright screaming.

Wrath finds it strange, but doesn’t have time to dwell on it. Mustang needs medical attention more than Wrath needs to know what happened to Hawkeye. Mustang holds out his hand that is not attached to his injured shoulder.

“Can you give me a boost?” he asks. Instead of giving him a boost, Wrath scoops him up and carries him. Wrath doesn’t know if Hawkeye would have been able to carry him this easily when her body was human, but now that the body belongs to Wrath it’s easy.

“Are you sure you should carry me?” he asks. Wrath think that the question sounds like he’s asking about Hakeye’s safety at the same time that it’s a symptom of his wounded pride.

“You’re not that heavy,” Wrath assures him. He starts to wiggle around in her arms.

“You know,” he says, and this _definitely_ comes from the wounded pride, “I’ve got this.” He flails even more this time, and then lets out a pained grunt as his shoulder wound hits hers. She feels more of his blood leaking out onto her shoulder.

“Stop moving,” Wrath orders.

“Yes ma’am,” he winces out, and this time he stays still in her arms as she keeps walking him to the hospital. Good. He’d better not hurt himself anymore on her watch.

 

Wrath takes him to the hospital and gets him checked in. A bullet wound is still a bullet wound, even if it’s non-lethal, and he has to have surgeries scheduled and performed and recovery periods started. It’s a more intensive process than Wrath would have expected.

Humans are fragile creatures, even the toughest among them like Mustang, and he requires time, rest, surgery, and medical help in order to recover. It scares Wrath more than she’d like to admit. She thought that this would be easier than it is. He’s asleep far more than he’s awake and half the time she worries that he’s not going to wake up, even though the doctors have assured her that he will make a full recovery.

Why does she even care? Humans are insignificant. Their passing means nothing to her, but this one? This _one_ human? She doesn’t want him to die. Wrath won’t _let_ him die.

Wrath guards his bedside, and Greed is there almost as much as she is. It’s starting to annoy her.

She can handle Greed when it’s the two of them with Mustang, and she can handle Greed when it’s just the two of them in small doses, but somehow with Mustang unconscious in a hospital bed and Greed as her only company, his entire being grates on her nerves more than usual. At least he’s not there right now. At least there’s that.

Wrath sits near the foot of the bed, hand never drifting far from the holster of her gun. She moves to draw it when she hears footsteps, but forces herself to refrain, This is a hospital, after all. There is activity all the time, most of it the innocuous movement of hospital personnel, patients or visitors. Once she hears Greed’s voice, she almost regrets her decision not to draw her weapon. She would have liked to see the look on his face when he walked in on her with her gun already trained on him.

“You haven’t left since yesterday night, have you?” he asks, sitting down in the tiny, uncomfortable arm chair beside her own tiny, uncomfortable arm chair.

“I wasn’t on duty,” Wrath says, and she means that in both senses of the word. The military didn’t require her presence and neither did Father. That means that she has free time. That means she can do whatever she damn well pleases with it.

“You were on bedside duty.”

“What are you implying?” Wrath demands.

“You _like_ him,” Greed coos like a schoolgirl on the playground.

“My human certainly was attached to him,” Wrath says smoothly. It’s not even a lie. Hawkeye cared for him greatly. If some of that has now bled over into Wrath herself, no one really needs to know that.

“No, I mean _you_. Father’s Wrath,” Greed says with a shit-eating grin, “you like him, brother.”

“Sister,” Wrath corrects. It seems odd that Greed would forget her current gender. He could be doing that to annoy her, but she doesn’t really think so. He always makes a point to use Envy’s proper pronouns.

“Sister?” Greed asks.

“Yes,” Wrath says, “sister.”

“You weren’t my sister yesterday,” Greed says. Wrath feels like she’s had the wind knocked out of her. Hawkeye hasn’t said anything in hours, and Wrath has stopped feeling like a he and started feeling like a she. She feels like those are probably connected.

“I think that you finally absorbed her,” Greed says, clapping her on the shoulder, “Congrats, _sis_. The body’s yours now.” And now that she realizes it, she thinks that must be what happened. Hawkeye didn’t just disappear, though. Wrath thinks that they have been conflated. Wrath’s gender, for one, is no longer the same. She wonders how much more of her current self is something that she absorbed from Riza Hawkeye.

Maybe that’s why she finds Mustang almost admirable. Maybe Hawkeye really is the reason that she has guarded his bedside for all this time. It’s hard to separate the different periods in her life now. It all seems like a blur.

“Do you think that’s the reason that I’m here, at his bedside?” she asks.

“What do you mean?” Greed asks.

“I have remnants of Hawkeye in me,” she asks, “is that the reason I care whether he lives or dies?”

“Do you want me to be honest?” he asks.

“Of course,” Wrath says, “what else would I want?” Wrath has never wanted anything less than perfect honesty, no matter how brutal it might be.

“Sometimes people just want to hear something specific,” Greed says, “like when Gracia asks if I prefer a dress that she obviously likes better than the one she just put on. They both look great, but I know that I have to choose the one she likes better. Sometimes she just wants me to say I agree, you know?”

“I’m not human, Greed,” Wrath says, “I’m above such things.” Greed looks at the ceiling like he’s deep in thought.

“Do you remember when Hawkeye stopped talking?” Greed asks. Wrath has to really think about it before she knows for sure.

“It was after we saved Mustang,” she admits.

“I think that you cared about Mustang even before you merged with Hawkeye I think you wanted to save him too,” Greed says, “and I think that’s the only reason that you were able to merge with Hawkeye, because you were both hellbent on saving him.” Wrath’s breath catches in her throat. That’s not what she expected to hear, and it takes a moment to regain her composure.

“Maybe that’s true,” she says, “maybe it isn’t.” Greed sends her a look that says _keep telling yourself that._

“Either way, it doesn’t matter now,” Wrath says, trying to keep her voice detached, “when the Promised Day comes, he’ll die.” Even if she stays by his bedside every day and he actually makes it through this. It doesn’t matter what Wrath thinks about him, because his fate has already been written. All of their fates have.

“He doesn’t have to,” Greed says. “Father still needs a sacrifice.”

“What are you implying?” she demands.

“He’s an alchemist, Wrath,” Greed says, like this is the obvious conclusion, “if you want him to live, it won’t be that hard to make it happen.” Suddenly, the pieces click into place in Wrath’s mind. The sacrifices will live through the Promised Day, along with anyone else Father deigns to allow in the room with him and the homunculi. If Roy becomes one of the sacrifices then he’s guaranteed to live through the ceremony.

She might still need to make sure that he shuts up and does as he’s told, but living through the transmutation will be the most difficult part. She knows she can make the rest of what she needs to happen if she can only make sure he lives through Promised Day.

He can only live through Promised Day, of course, if he sees the other side of the gate. Suddenly, the most important thing in the world is not so much the mission in Ishval or putting bullets in heads or even the fact that Roy Mustang is currently lying unconscious in the infirmary: it’s making sure that this one human tries to bring another one back from the dead.

 

 

 

His recovery doesn’t take too much longer after her decision, and soon Roy is back to full health, ready to be sent back into the field. This comes with all the old caveats, namely, his crippling guilt over his past actions and his preemptive guilt for what he’ll do in the future.

She thought that with all of this, it would be fairly easy to plant the idea of human transmutation and slowly help it grow. Apparently, they call it Alchemy’s Greatest Taboo for a reason. Getting someone to attempt human transmutation isn’t as easy as she thought it might be.

They’re sitting outside, underneath the stars. The night is the only time that it’s bearable to be outside longer than necessary because it cools off enough to actually be comfortable, so a lot of the soldiers take this brief reprieve and sit there in circles under the stars.

She catches snippets of other conversations, people talking about their families back at home mixed in with dirty jokes and stories of their sexscapades. Humans are such strange and immature creatures.

“Did Hughes tell you about his newest letter yet?” Roy asks. Wrath grins. Apparently humans aren’t the _only_ strange and immature creatures.

“Of course,” Wrath says, “I think he showed me that picture of Elicia four times today.” Roy grins.

“Just four?”

“Okay,” Wrath says, “it might have been more like eight.”

“Don’t think I’ve ever met someone who loves their kid more than he does,” Roy says. Wrath nods.

She knows that she was a father (to Pride, at least) back when she was the other Wrath, but she knows that she wouldn’t have cared a tiny fraction as much about Pride as Greed cares about Elicia. She doubts if most _humans_ care as much for their offspring as Greed does for Elicia. She supposes that it makes sense. Homunculi are supposed to be better than humans in every way. Perhaps parenthood is just one of them. Father definitely thinks that he’s a better parent than humans are. Father is supposed to be better at everything.

She shifts her position slightly, sand moving through her fingers and leaking into her shoes. Roy follows suit, and grunts at the pressure on his shoulder.

“It still hurts?” Wrath asks, and she doesn’t have to fabricate her concern. Roy shakes his head as he sits back down.

“Only when I do that,” he says.

“Glad you’re healed, then,” Wrath says. Roy chuckles, but it’s not a funny one. It catches in his throat.

“Yeah,” he says, “now I can go straight back to killing the people I signed up to protect.” Wrath nods. She’s still trying to figure out how to spin this. He looks away from her and up at the stars instead now.

“I know it’s not possible,” he says, “I just- I wish there was a way to undo all of this.” And there’s her in.

“What if you could?” she asks.

“What do you mean?” Roy asks, finally meeting her eyes again. He looks deeply confused.

“Can’t you just bring them back?” she suggests. She tries to make it sound casual, like the thought just came to her. His eyes widen, and he looks around them before he even speaks, like he’s surveying the area for possible hostiles. Since one of the faces in the crowd is Kimblee she can’t really fault him for that.

“Do you mean human transmutation?” he whispers.

“Yes.”

“No? I can’t do that? That’s- that’s ” the volume of his voice rises throughout the whole thing, and by the end of it people are staring, people including Kimblee.

“What,” she says, “taboo?” He looks too gobstruck to even respond.

“Traditions should be questioned,” she says. He looks like he’s mulling it over, and when he finally responds, it’s much calmer than she expected. The thought is well put-together and his voice is back to a normal volume. Only a few people are still staring.

“Of course,” he says, “traditions _should_ be questioned, but sometimes, things are taboo for a reason.” Wrath grits her teeth and nods, because she knows that if she doesn’t keep her mouth closed she’ll say something that pisses him off and sets him further away from the path she intends for him. She can tell that this conversation is over.

 

Wrath is frustrated. She didn’t expect that conversation to go the way that it did. Maybe she came on too strong for the first time? She probably needs to re-evaluate her strategy on this. She fiddles with her gun absently. Then, she hears heavy footsteps behind her. She draws her gun immediately and turns around.

Kimblee doesn’t even bother to flinch.

“Kimblee,” she says, not bothering to lower her weapon. He rolls his eyes.

“You can lower your weapon, you know,” he says, “we both know you aren’t going to shoot me.” Then he grins.

“I’m not Ishvalan.” He says that like it’s the punchline of the century. _Oh, this state sanctioned slaughter is racially based, isn’t that funny?_   Wrath doesn’t fully understand human humor, but she can tell that Kimblee is an outlier of the severely fucked up variety, even if he has a point: this state sanctioned slaughter is most assuredly racially based. She rolls her eyes as she slides her handgun back into its holster.

“What is it, Kimblee?” she asks. He’s ever tried to talk to her before and she doesn’t know what to make of it.

“Heard you talking about human transmutation,” Kimblee says, leaning against the brick wall, “Mustang had a _freak_ out.”

“He did,” Wrath says evenly.

“Most people are so touchy about these things,” Kimblee says, “they act like human life is something sacred and mystical instead of just a cosmic accident. Who fucking cares if you play god. There isn’t another one to get pissed about it. There aren’t any universal rules except to survive.” Wrath doesn’t say anything at all. She knows that Hawkeye would argue with him. Wrath could probably work up something approximating her argument too, but Wrath is just too tired to.

She doesn’t agree, necessarily, but she doesn’t disagree either. She just doesn’t have an opinion on human transmutation beyond “something that Roy has to do”. She doesn’t care what other humans do. They’re too inconsequential to even show up on her mental radar.

“You’re one of them, aren’t you?” Kimblee asks.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Wrath says innocently. Kimblee laughs.

“Course you don’t,” Kimblee says, “none of Father’s grunts ever do.”

“I am not a _grunt,”_ Wrath growls.

“Are you one of his children then?” Kimblee asks, voice so patronizingly sweet it could rot her teeth. She feels her rage build within her, but tries not to let it influence her decisions. Kimblee is one of Father’s pawns. It doesn’t hurt if he knows which side of the board she sits on. Wrath lifts up her eyepatch and shows him the ouroboros where her eye used to be. Kimblee laughs.

“I knew that remorse was faked,” he says with a feral grin, “I could smell it.” Wrath doesn’t even grace that with a shrug. So what if he sniffed out her lack of remorse, it takes someone without it to know one. Kimblee leans against the wall casually.

“Why do you hover over Mustang, anyway? What’s your Father got planned for him?”

“Human sacrifice,” Wrath says. Kimblee laughs. Apparently he can sniff out any sort of deception.

“Mustang seems a little _whole_ for someone who’s done human transmutation, don’t you think?”

“That’s because he hasn’t done it yet,” Wrath says. It’s frustrating how hard it’s been to coax him into it.

People say you can’t lead a horse to water. Apparently, you can’t lead a human to the only way to survive the day of reckoning either. At least not easily. She will do it, but it will require more time and effort. More subtlety and finesse. It will have to be the gentle coaxing and leading that he doesn’t even notice happening.

“So he’s just a _potential_ sacrifice,” Kimblee says, “which brings us back to my point: why do you hover over Mustang, anyway?”

“Do _you_ want to attempt human transmutation, Major Kimblee?”

“You’re right,” Kimblee says, admitting defeat fairly easily for a man who antagonized the Flame Alchemist for fun, “I don’t care enough about anyone to give up a piece of myself for them.”

“Most people wouldn’t,” Wrath says. All of Father’s sacrifices in the past have done human transmutation for someone they loved. It’s too big of a sacrifice to make and risk to take just because someone can. That must have been her biggest mistake, not giving him someone specific to latch the idea onto. She’ll need to incorporate that next time.

“But you know,” Kimblee says, “I don’t think you just hover over him because he’s a great alchemist. You don’t just lust over his potential.” Then Kimblee smirks at his own filthy joke.

“You’re not so far above humans after all.” Wrath draws her gun and points it directly at Kimblee’s head. He doesn't flinch. He doesn't even bat an eye.

“Your Father wants me alive,” he says smoothly. Wrath lowers her gun but does not lower her glare.

“At the moment,” Wrath says. Kimblee laughs.

“Well look at that, Little Miss Hawkeye’s got a spine after all.”

“I’m not Hawkeye.”

“Are you Father’s Lust?” he taunts, making the same terrible joke twice in a row.

“No, I’m his _Wrath_ ,” she growls.

“Doesn’t matter much,” Kimblee says, “you can’t kill me either way.” And as much as she hates to admit it, that much is true. She can’t kill him, but she doesn’t have to stand here listening to him either. Then, Wrath walks away and leaves Kimblee to his own devices.

 

Wrath spends hours agonizing over who she should get him to focus on. Who would make the most effective prospect for human transmutation. Dead parents perhaps? A long lost best friend? She considers every single possibility, but then she doesn't even need to. Apparently all he needed was the murder of innocents in cold blood on his conscience. Strange, considering how many innocents who he’s already killed, albeit less directly.

Wrath and Mustang are walking down the streets of Ishval. While this doesn’t always end in tragedy, it sometimes does. This is one of those times. Colonel Basque Grand, the Iron Blood Alchemist, flags them down.

“Colonel Grand,” Roy says.

“I require your assistance, Major Mustang,” he says.

“Of course, Colonel,” he says.

“You too, Lieutenant,” he orders, “you can guard the door.” They follow the Colonel through the streets to a small, wooden house. The Colonel breaks the door open. Then, Wrath stays in front of the hole where the door used to be. A couple, both blonde and beautiful, stand on the dirt floor, looking frustrated that someone broke into their home. 

“What are you doing?” the man asks, “this is private property.”

“This is a time of war, doctor,” the Colonel says, smiling cruelly, “I have the authority to do whatever I need to.”

“What do you need?” the woman asks.

“Nothing from you, doctor,” he says. Then, he turns to Roy.

“You have an execution to perform, Major.”

“What?” Roy asks.

“You’re going to execute us?” the woman asks, her bright blue eyes widening in fear.

“You heard me." 

“But these are civilians,” Roy says, his eyes widening.

“This is an underground contact point for Ishvalan insurgents,” the Colonel says, “these doctors were involved. You can hardly call them civilians after that.”

“We were just treating people!” the man shouts, “we were trying to save lives!”

“Yes,” the Colonel says, “ _Ishvalan_ lives.”

“A life is a life,” the woman says, looking defiantly at the Colonel, “no matter how little the military values Ishvalans, they _are_ people _,_ most of them civilians. None of them deserve to die." 

“The people-" he rolls his eyes as he says this, "-you saved were coming back to murder my soldiers."

He looks her dead in the eyes and coldly says, "Now you won’t be saving any.”

“Please,” the man says, “we have a daughter at home.”

“Colonel,” Roy says, trying to appeal to Grand’s humanity.

“Do it,” Grand says, “that’s an order, Major.” Mustang shakes his head, desperately. _No, I won’t- I can’t,_ it says.

“If you don’t do it, then I’ll add you to the list. Make it three instead of two.” His breathing speeds up nervously, and it grows loud enough that Wrath can hear it across the room.

“Do it,” Grand growls one last time, and Mustang finally pulls the trigger. Then, he does it again. Two clean shots through the chest, and each of them falls down. The way that they fall into a pile almost looks like a lovers’ embrace. There are sounds of dying, last words, and then finally silence. At the end, they’re still in that embrace that looks like two people desperately in love. It’s a fitting end for a married couple.

“Thank you, Major,” Grand says, patting Mustang on the shoulder as he trembles, “was that really that hard?” Then, he slips out the door by Wrath, not even acknowledging her as he passes. Mustang laughs then, high-pitched and strangled, as he brings his own gun up to his head. Wrath reacts on impulse and nearly runs across the room. She rips the gun out of his hand and throws on the safety.

“How did you move that fast?” he asks, his eyes widening.

“You’re not in your right mind,” she says, “you just didn’t notice.” He nods, taking that at face value. He really _isn’t_ in his right mind if he accepts that as an answer.

“I’m sorry that you had to see that,” he says, gesturing to the bloody corpses on the ground that he created.

“I’ve seen worse, sir,” she assures him, “I’ve _done_ worse.” This was just two humans. Wrath has killed more people than that in just this past hour.

Two measly, insignificant humans. The deaths of two people might not have even made the paper back in Central if it was a fast news day. This isn’t even the first time that he’s killed. Wrath doesn’t get why this is the one that’s got him so worked up. Perhaps it’s just because of the up close and personal nature of these murders. It’s harder to scrub the memories from his brain now that there are these vivid pictures of murder in his mind.

“They were innocent, Hawkeye,” he says.

 

Ah, there it is again. Intention. Perception. Human ethics can be so malleable yet so rigid. They can only bend so far until they go rigid, like a particularly elastic noose.

 

All these fragile, human constructs that they build their lives around. What matters but actions? Knowing what you want and trying to acquire it?

 

All these flimsy, contradictory morals they try to build their lives around make Wrath want to snap necks, or least watch them snap their own necks on the nooses they’ve built.

 

“They had a daughter,” he looks down at his hands like they’re something abhorrent, “I took them away from her. I made her an orphan.”

“Then do something about it,” Wrath orders, furious that he’d want to take himself out of this world when she’s gone to such lengths to keep him in it, “killing yourself won’t bring them back. It won’t give that little girl back her parents.” Perhaps she can use his guilt to lead him where she wants him to go.

“But what if I _could_ bring them back?”

“If you have to,” Wrath says, trying not to sound so eager, “if that will make you not kill yourself.” He needs a push in her direction, and she thinks this will be the one that he needs. He looks like he’s considering it, which is really all she can ask for at this point. She just needs the idea to be planted in his mind.

The soil is less hostile now, nourished by guilt. Perhaps it will grow this time.

 

 

 

He researches in earnest, digging through every alchemical text that he can get his hands on. Granted, that’s not a lot in Ishval, but there are more than one might expect. Especially since he dragged his entire library over, choosing his books over most other personal items.

“I’m going to do it,” he tells her one day. She raises an eyebrow.

“Why are you telling me?” she asks gently, “I thought things like that were supposed to be secret.” _Taboo._ He laughs.

“I thought you’d be thrilled,” he says, “you were the one who brought it up. “

“I don’t _want_ you to do this,” she says. He sends her a _really_ look.

“I don’t,” she assures him. It’s not really a lie, either. Wrath doesn’t care about the transmutation itself. All she cares about is how that will save him on Promised Day. All she wants to do is save him from death.

“You seemed very invested in it earlier.”

“I want you to do what you need to do,” she says, “and if that’s this path…” She lets the sentence trail off. He doesn’t need her to fill in that blank for her.

“Do you want to come?” he asks.

“You’re ready to do it?” she asks.

“Of course,” he says, “I wouldn’t have invited you if I weren’t. You could have a front row seat to the first successful resurrection in history.” He says this with a forced smirk. Every bit of bravado and confidence is him demeanor is forced at the moment, but Wrath will take it. People have to fake it until they make it, after all, and she needs him to make this. She needs him to follow through with this and then just finish it.

“Show me the way,” she tells him. Then, he does. He leads her to the tiny house where he executed the doctors he now plans to resurrect. It’s poetic, in a deeply sad sort of way. He plans to revive the people that he killed in the same place that he killed them.

The bodies are long gone, and even the blood stains on the dirt have disappeared. It looks exactly the same way that it did that day before he killed them. Except, of course, for the pile of supplies stacked up against the wall. She’s sure that those are the ingredients in two human bodies.

“What were their names?” she asks. Not for curiosity’s sake as much as to remind him of what he did- remind him of why he has to do this. She’s gotten him this far, she can’t afford for him to back out now.

“Sarah and Yuriy Rockbell,” he says, his voice hollow. She walks up behind him. She hopes that the presence feels comforting, and a bit judgmental. _I’m here, I support you, please get with the program._

He kneels down by the supplies, pulls out a list, and starts running through his inventory. He says every piece under his breath. When he finally gets to ammonia, his eyes widen.

“I forgot the ammonia,” he says. Then he starts rummaging through the pile, looking to see if it somehow got lost in with the other ingredients.

“I forgot the ammonia,” he repeats, a little despondent.

“Can’t you go get some and then try again later?” she asks. He nods.

“Yes,” he says, not sounding pleased, “I can.” He looks down at his stockpile of ingredients, then at his list where he slowly checked off items. He starts to laugh, that terrible sound that Wrath has grown used to.

She remembers in some of Hawkeye’s memories, whenever Mustang laughed it was loud and boisterous, only ever a sound of joy. Wrath has heard that laughter, but only on occasion. Mostly she’s only heard his laughter be nervous, strangled, bitter. She can’t tell which emotion it’s conveying now.

“You know,” he says, “it feels like I just went grocery shopping for the ingredients in a person. It’s like I’m listing the ingredients in a cake.” He sounds disgusted by the prospect.

“What do you mean?” Wrath asks.

“This feels so wrong,” he says.

“Wrong?” Wrath asks. What does he mean by that? Irreverent? Unceremonious? Methodical? Detached? Surgical? _Taboo?_

“This shouldn’t be like baking a cake,” Roy says. Then his eyes widen.

“I can’t even bake a cake. How am I supposed to bake a person?” She considers cracking a joke about how he _has_ baked people when he had to burn them alive, but really, she doesn’t think that will help her case right now. It certainly isn’t something Riza Hawkeye would say.

“They won’t come back right,” he tells her, “no matter what I do, I can’t bring them back right.”

“You were so sure that you could do this,” Wrath says, trying to keep her voice even, “what changed your mind?” He looks to her with terror and uncertainty in his eyes.

“There has never been a successful human transmutation,” Roy says. Then he shakes his head.

“What makes me any different?” There’s a new kind of certainty in his eyes: certainty that he _can’t_ do this, that he shouldn’t even try. Wrath sighs.

“I can’t do this,” he says, “I _shouldn’t.”_

He’s right that humans can’t be made. It’s impossible to bring them back from the grave, no matter how hard an alchemist might try. They can’t be created in a lab with the proper ingredients the way that homunculi can.

“Alright, sir,” she says. She knows that if she pushes any harder today she won’t get the results that she wants. She needs more time, but she knows that she _can_ do it. She can get him to change his mind eventually.  

Humans are born, not made, which means they can change. They aren’t made perfect and unchanging like homunculi are. Their minds can be shaped. Their worldviews can be molded. She’s watched little bits of the light leave his eyes as she and Greed stayed exactly the same.

People can change, and they do. Right now, Roy is certain that he would never attempt human transmutation, even for these innocents he killed and left lying in their own blood.

But minds can be changed along with circumstances, and she knows she has an influence over him. She knows that she can make him change enough to do so. It’s the only way to save him, and Wrath wants that more than just about anything. More than she’d ever want to admit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this fic takes elements from 03, so i decided to bring in mustang killing the rockbells. there is a fairly graphic description of that in this as well as casual some casual racism, minor dysphoria that i hope i didn't do terribly, and wrath being wrath TM with some classic king bradley philosophy. also the fact that wrath and greed are roy's best friends and also plotting behind his back to bring about the end of amestris and also make him commit human transmutation. 
> 
> so like. that sucks. probably something to warn for. 
> 
> comments are deeply appreciated! but if you want to just talk, hmu at disregardcanon on tumblr


	3. Discovery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roy Mustang vs the fact that his two best friends are homunculi who really want him to perform human transmutation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm back! after nearly two months, i finally have an update for y'all!!!!! please enjoy and also review 
> 
> originally posted june 24, 2018

There are some things that cannot be undone.

A human cannot unage. Not even the greatest alchemist can restore youth.

Humans cannot be resurrected from the dead, no matter how hard someone tries.

Trauma cannot be unlived. The scars that it leaves on a human’s fragile heart are permanent.

The Roy Mustang that returns from Ishval is not the one that left for it. Wrath cannot get him back. The best that she and Greed can hope for is to preserve the damaged version. The best they can hope for is human transmutation and the mutilation it will inflict upon his body.

Another permanent change, of course, is melding with a homunculus, but really, that's another story entirely. It’s a story for a different time. At the very least, a different chapter.

* * *

 

 

Wrath doubts that it’s a good sign that Father called for both her and Greed today. He never specifically wants the two of them. He never specifically wants two homunculi, period. He normally throws whichever homunculi are on hand at a problem, or chooses one specific homunculus for one specific mission. Wrath has a sinking feeling that Father knows they aren’t behaving as intended.

“Father,” Wrath says, bowing stiffly to his throne.

“Heyo daddio,” Greed says, leaning casually against the wall, “what’s the summons over? Did some of our raping and pillaging not live up to your standards?” Father leans forward on his throne, somehow both lazy and intentional.

“According to Major Kimblee,” Father says, pausing for emphasis after the name, “it did not.” Wrath looks to Greed. He’s the fast-talker. That’s his job. He should be the one talking them out of this, and he needs to start _immediately._

“What did Kimblee say?” Greed asks cautiously.

“He seems to think that you both harbor affection for The Flame Alchemist,” Father says.

“Of course not,” Wrath says, “we simply think that he would make a good sacrifice. You still need another, after all.” Perhaps Wrath herself is getting better at this fast talking thing.

“That does not require hovering over him the way that the Major described,” Father says. _Or perhaps not_ , she thinks bitterly.

“He’s a smart man, Father,” Greed says, “if we don’t keep an eye on him he might actually uncover what’s going on.”

“If he does, then we will dispose of him,” Father says, “The Flame Alchemist is powerful, but he is replaceable.” Disposable, replaceable- if Wrath and Greed don’t ensure his place, he won’t have one.

“But we can keep him under control,” Wrath assures him. She hopes that she sounds like she’s reasoning with him rather than pleading with him. Her wrath is under control, as are the rest of her emotions.

There’s a tiny, needling fear in the back of her brain, probably left from Hawkeye, that he’ll think she’s being too emotional because she’s a woman. She thinks that it must have been easier being Wrath as a man. There are fewer social stigmas attached to manhood, especially for things like anger. 

“Even turn him into a real asset,” Greed adds. Father does not look impressed, but he does look willing to listen.

“People aren’t lining up to perform human transmutation, Father,” Greed says, “if you want another sacrifice, we need to make one.” Father nods. He’s giving them a chance to make this work.

“Alright, you may pursue this course, but do not let yourselves lose sight of this mission,” he tells them.

“Of course not, Father,” Greed says.

“Never,” Wrath promises. When the mission is “Save Roy Mustang” it really isn’t difficult for her to stay on task.

“You are dismissed,” Father says. They both know that means “get out”, so they leave quickly. They don’t exactly want to stick around.

 

As soon as they’re out of the great room, Greed looks around the hallway. Wrath can assume that he’s scanning for other homunculi. Whatever it is he’s about to say, he doesn’t want anyone to hear it but her.

“This is happening too slow,” Greed says.

“What?”

“The human transmutation of course,” Greed says.

“What are you suggesting?” Wrath asks.

“Look,” Greed says, “you’re not having any luck getting Roy to go through it by yourself. Why don’t I give it a try too?”

“I will make it happen myself,” Wrath says. She doesn’t need Greed’s help.

“It’s been too long,” Greed says, “if he doesn’t perform soon, Father won’t be pleased.” And Father not being pleased means Father having Roy killed.  
  
“It will happen,” Wrath swears.

“Might happen sooner if I help,” Greed says.

“We don’t need speed. We need precision.”

“Which I _excel_ at. Come on, Wrath. Can’t make it worse, right?” Wrath bites her lip.  
  
“Really, Wrath,” he says, “you should have more faith in me. I have a wife and daughter. I know how humans work.” Greed might be right about that. His interactions with Gracia and Elicia probably give him more concrete experience than her scattered memories from Hawkeye, but she doesn’t know why Greed cares so much. He doesn’t have remnants of Riza Hawkeye clogging up his brain.

“I thought you only cared for things that were yours,” Wrath says. Greed laughs.

“After all we’ve been through, you’ve never considered that he might be _mine_ too?” Wrath knew that he cared, to some degree, but she never expected that it ran that deep. She doesn’t know what to make of the information, to be honest.

“We’re big homunculi,” Greed says, “we can share one person, can’t we?”

“I never expected to hear a lecture on sharing from you, _Greed_ ," Wrath says wryly. She’s not entirely pleased with the prospect, but she knows that it’s better than being on opposite sides. An annoying ally is better than an enemy.

“I’m full of surprises,” Greed says. Then he looks at her seriously. Sometimes Wrath forgets that Greed is just as capable of being serious as the rest of them.

“Do we have a deal, sis?” Wrath nods.

“We have a deal,” she tells him Then, Greed leaves her and Wrath is left alone in the winding hallway. She knows that with their combined efforts, they can make Roy do this.

They can save him. They can damn him. Really, they can do both of these at the same time. When the action in question in transmutation, salvation and damnation are the same thing.

* * *

 

 

Roy Mustang comes back from Ishval with a promotion and a fancy new title. The Hero of Ishval, they call him, as if he saved anyone over there. As if all that murdering and pillaging and burning he did was heroic. It makes him sick to his stomach.

He feels more like The Arsonist of Ishval. Mass murder and arson are a more permanent part of his resume than heroism now, after all, but he had _wanted_ to be a hero. He wanted to save people, not kill them, but killing people is what he ended up doing. Because that’s just how their country was set up, built on blood and prejudice and excessive force and a propaganda machine so strong that it makes most people think that whatever their military does is justified.

Roy doesn’t want any more innocents to die, and he doesn’t want any other hopeful young people to fall into the same trap that he did. He wants to fix their military and make sure that nothing like that will _ever_ happen again.

There are two people in this whole military that Roy trusts, _really_ trusts, and he’s glad to still have one of them by his side. Hughes might get transferred to god knows where, but he knows that Hawkeye will always have his back now that she’s agreed to become his adjunct.

She will literally be there to watch his back as a bodyguard, and to put a literal bullet in his brain if he ever looks like the monster he became in Ishval again. And if that doesn’t happen, she’ll be there to protect his back as he rises to the top so that he can finally fix everything that’s wrong with this murder machine of a military.

It will take a while for him to climb to the top. He won’t be able to make his changes immediately, but knowing that’s what awaits him on the horizon makes him feel a little better about everything that he has done and everything he will do. It helps him keep going, and helps him banish the thoughts of human transmutation that haunt his dreams.

The thought of an easy way to atone for his sins always rests in the back of his thoughts, ready to strike. Ready to drag him back into the dark.

 

 

 

Roy does his job to the best of his ability. It’s easier to do so without retching during peacetime. Nowadays it’s just paperwork and recruitment efforts. Those are the least of the possible evils that he can commit while staying in the military, really. Paperwork hurts no one except those it’s inflicted on, and recruitment. Well, recruitment’s a beast in and of itself, but in peacetime with no war on the horizon, he doesn’t feel so bad about it.

He’s not about to ship young people off to fight and kill, but to have cushy desk jobs or paid alchemic research positions, either of which would help him achieve his own goals? Roy doesn’t think he’s above _that._ Not in the least.

So he travels around, sniffing out recruitment leads like the good military dog he is, and occasionally those leads actually yield recruits. He’d almost prefer if this one did _not_ yield recruits, though. Maybe Roy needs to rethink not being above recruiting people for the military. At least, he’ll need to if the universe keeps sending him signs like _this._

 

Sometimes signs are subtle. Sometimes they’re ambiguous. Most of the time they’re metaphorical. The literal Rockbell Automail sign sitting right outside the residence that Roy needs to enter for recruitment efforts is none of the above. It feels like an ax hanging above his neck, reminding him of all of his sins. Reminding him of the ones that he’s committing right at this very moment.

He would try to convince himself that this wasn’t the same Rockbell family if he didn’t know that it _has_ to be. He read the file on Yuriy and Sarah Rockbell over and over and over again. He knows that they were from Resembool, and he knows that Yuriy’s mother Pinako was an automail mechanic. This _is_ their house.

He hates himself for daring to stand on the doorstep of the people he killed in cold blood and trying to recruit their friend into the military that ordered him to do it.

It needs to be done, though. This is his job. If he wants to eventually get to a place where he can make the changes he wants to this organization, he has to do it well enough to warrant promotions. He needs to make worthwhile recruitment, and whoever lit up the sky bright alchemic blue like that? Recruiting them would be the most worthwhile recruitment he’s ever made.

If the sneaking suspicion in his gut that the blinding light he saw was the result of human transmutation is right, this person will likely need _him_ as much as Roy needs them.

“Are you alright, sir?” Hawkeye asks softly.

“I’m fine, lieutenant,” he says, in a voice that does not sound fine at all. Then, he takes a deep breath and knocks on the door. A few moments later, the door opens.

“Who the hell are you?” a tiny, angry looking old woman says.

“I’m Lieutenant Colonel Roy Mustang, and this is Second Lieutenant Riza Hawkeye ,” he says, forcing confidence back into his voice, “we’re looking for the alchemist that lit up the sky.”

“And they’re not looking for you,” the woman who must be Pinako says. 

“Please,” Roy says, “let’s let the alchemists speak for themselves.” He draws out the s in alchemists to the point where it almost hisses. She looks taken aback, but he can’t tell if it’s because he’s picked up on the fact that there’s more than one of them or if it’s because of how angry she is. Her face twists up, and she grips the door so tightly her fingers look like they’re digging into the edge of the wood.

Yeah.

He’s going to go with how angry she is.

 

“You have no business here, so you really should leave,” Pinako says, and it’s the politest way he’s ever been told to get the fuck off someone’s property. Hawkeye sends him a slightly concerned look. Roy sighs. He really doesn’t think that this is going to go the way that he’d hoped.

“I want to talk to him,” another voice calls out from inside the house. It’s strong and confident, but it’s high pitched- young. That is _not_ an adult’s voice.

“Are you sure?” the woman asks gently. It’s a stark contrast to the way that she’d spoken to Roy before.

“As the grave,” the voice says. Which- wow, that’s so overdramatic it could only have come from a pre-teen. The woman rolls her eyes and then opens the door. She gestures for Roy and Hawkeye  to come in, and the follow her.

The front room of the Rockbell home is a fairly normal living room, except for the the little boy in the wheelchair and the suit of armor on the floor. A little girl with blonde hair is sitting by the suit of armor and looks as though she’s _talking to it._ Her head jerks to meet his eyes. Her eyes are bright blue- just like the Rockbells. Just like her parents.

He shoves the thoughts out of his mind and looks instead to the little boy in the wheelchair. He’s missing an arm and a leg, and Roy thinks that this just about proves it. He committed human transmutation.

“Why are you here?” the kid asks. This boy might be the most competent alchemist on the planet, but he’s quite obviously a child. An angry, bitter, and now physically disabled child.

“I wanted to talk to a powerful alchemist,” Roy says. The kid rolls his eyes.

“Sure,” he says, “you want to talk. Want to chat about arrays over a cup of tea?”

“I wouldn’t be opposed,” Roy says, “I have a bit of a passion for arrays.” He slides his hand into his pockets, and pulls out one of his gloves. He holds it out to show the kid his array. 

“It’s an original design,” Roy says. It might not be _his_ design, but he doesn’t have to divulge that, not really.

“That’s for air transmutations, isn’t it?”

“What do you think?” Roy asks. He tries to hid his shock that the kid picked up on it that quickly.

“I’d need to look closer to get a full read, but my best guess? You compress the air and then make a spark somehow to set a fire.” Damn, Mustang _did_ find a genius. Most alchemists he encounters have no idea what to make of his array on first sight, and most never figure out that it’s mainly air based as opposed to flame based.

“That’s about right,” he says. He tries not to sound overly impressed. He doesn’t think he succeeds.

“So you make fire. That’s kind of badass.”

“What’s the good in that?” the little girl asks. Roy could almost swear he hears a whisper come from the armor beside her.

“What do you mean?” Roy asks.

“Why would you _need_ to be able to to create fire? What good would that do?” she asks.

“It’s a hell of a parlor trick,” Roy says, and he sees Hawkeye send him a sympathetic look at the uncomfortable crack in his voice. He hopes that these people don’t notice it.

“Winry,” a squeaky voice that sounds like it’s coming from the _suit of armor_ says, “don’t be cruel.”

“I just asked him a question, Al,” she says, turning back to the suit of armor like that’s completely normal. 

“That suit of armor just talked,” Roy says, “I’m- I’m not the only one that heard that, right?” Hawkeye nods back at him, and he feels relieved that at least he’s not _crazy._ The boy in the wheelchair grimaces.

“I was hoping you wouldn’t figure it out." 

“You thought I wouldn’t hear something said right in front of me?” Roy asks. He’s starting to doubt his initial read on this boy’s intelligence.

“I was hoping that you wouldn’t talk to him, Al.” The armor rises to its feet. 

“You can’t expect me to just stop talking to people because of, well. You know.” Roy doesn’t have to be the genius these two clearly are to figure out _that_ answer. Roy decides that his best course of action is to be polite to the boy who is now a suit of armor. He holds out a hand to shake.

“I’m Lieutenant Colonel Roy Mustang. It’s nice to meet you.” The armor can’t smile, of course, but it takes his hand with enthusiasm. It shakes his hand with even more enthusiasm.

In a cheery and high-pitched voice he says, “I’m Alphonse Elric, and that’s my brother Ed. It’s nice to meet you too!”

“Nice is not the word I’d use,” Pinako adds.

Winry says, “Yeah, I’d say it’s the opposite-” and then Al says something over her- and suddenly it’s just a big family shouting match.

“You know,” Roy says, turning to Hawkeye, “we had a reason for coming here.” She sends him the ghost of a smirk.

“After all of this, I think I’ve forgotten it.” The kid in the wheelchair- Ed, looks like he’s about ready to scream. Then he does.

“Shut up!” he shouts. The entire room quiets down, and the boy doesn’t look any less irritated with the silence.

“I want to talk to him,” Ed says, “and I want to talk to him without the rest of you telling me what I should think.”

“You do?” Al asks.

“I do,” Ed says. It seems like that exchange probably means something between the two of them. Neither of the two women seem pleased by this, but they don’t try to start another shouting match. Roy’s ears appreciate that.

“Come on,” Ed says, “let’s go to the other room.” He moves his single arm to the wheel of his chair, and goes to wheel himself into the room. Roy puts a hand on each handle to help push him. Roy hears the slap before he feels it, but it hurts his hand a lot. He isn’t too ashamed to admit that he makes a noise of pain and rips it away.

“What did you do that for?” Roy demands, cradling the freshly slapped hand with the the other one.

“I don’t need your help,” Ed seethes. Hawkeye sends him a look, and he picks up on what she means immediately. _Is this kid for real?_ Roy just nods back at her that _yes, this kid_ **_is_ ** _for real._

“Alright, alright,” Roy says, and he backs up from the chair. He’s not going to try to help again if _that_ was his reward. It takes a little bit for the kid to get over there, but if it saves the kid his pride and saves Roy’s hand some pain, he doesn’t mind that much, even when he doesn’t let Roy open the door for him. Instead he has to maneuver his chair in a specific spot so that the can actually open the door and then adjust so that he can properly enter the room.

Roy follows him into the room, and finally, there’s a chance to make something from this whole ordeal.

“Okay,” Ed says, a little breathless, “what do you want. For real?” The boy with one arm and one leg looks at him with fire in his eyes, daring him to say something to argue with. 

“You and your brother tried to bring someone back from the dead, didn’t you?” Ed doesn’t say anything, but instead glares. Roy can clearly see what that glare is saying: _you’re dumb enough that you have to ask?_

“I thought about trying that once,” Roy says, “well, more than once. I thought about trying it a lot.” If Roy were honest with himself, he’d admit that he thinks about it every single night when the screams of people burning, half-alive, skin searing off their body, flood his mind. Roy is not entirely honest with himself, though, and he likely never will be. Ed laughs, and it sounds far too knowing and bitter for a kid of his age. He couldn’t be more than what, nine?

“Be glad you didn’t. It cost me an arm and a leg and, well. You saw Al.” Ed looks at the spot where his arm used to be.

“It didn’t even bring our mom back. We just lost everything.”

Roy’s heard that expression over and over again: cost an arm and a leg. He never thought he’d hear it meant literally. It feels like one of those cheesy comedic radio shows with ridiculous puns and bad jokes offset by a rimshot. He can almost hear the BA DOOM TS now. It’s a sick cosmic joke is what it is. Somewhere up there, god is looking down at them and laughing.

“Where was the equivalency in that?” the kid asks.

“I don’t know, but If you ever want to try to get those things back,” Roy says, “here’s my card.” Roy hands him his standard business card with all his pertinent information on it. 

“You want me to join the military?” Ed asks. He sounds like he thinks it’s a joke. Roy nods.

“I’m eleven and I just lost two limbs. You think they want me in the military?” Roy is able to bite back his surprise that this kid is two years older than he’d assumed (damn, he must be short for his age) and stay in recruitment mode. If he’s committing to this, really committing to getting a disabled child to join the military, he’d better not insult his height. At least not before he has him on the hook.  
  
“After seeing _that_ alchemy, I know it,” Roy says, “you bonded your brother’s soul to a suit of armor. That’s- that’s _unheard of._ With skill like that, you’re a shoo-in.” Ed laughs.

“You think _I_ want to join the military?”

“I think that you want to do something about what happened, and I think joining up is your best bet. Where else are you going to get access to that kind of research, those kind of resources? If you want to get your bodies back, this is your only option.” Ed glares at him, golden eyes blazing with fury. Roy can almost see actual flames reflected back at him in them, and the faces of all of the people he’s killed.

 _Yuriy and Sarah Rockbell finally came home again._ Roy pushes that terrible thought away. He can’t dwell on that, not here, not now.

He thinks that Ed’s going to say something else, but he just looks up to the ceiling, ignoring Roy completely.

“You have my card if you change your mind,” Roy says smoothly. Ed does not even acknowledge that he’s spoken, and Roy opens the door and leaves him to his silence and angst. Maybe he should have left him to his silence and angst to begin with.

Hawkeye is sitting beside Winry Rockbell, and they look as though they’ve just finished a conversation. A conversation with Winry Rockbell. He killed the girl’s parents and now his lieutenant is making chit chat with her. He looks away abruptly, because he knows he can't meet the girl's bright blue eyes.  That particular shade, shared by both of her parents, was seared into his brain long ago.

“Thank you for allowing us into your home,” he says, looking anywhere but the girl he's speaking to. 

“It was nice to meet you, Miss Riza,” Winry says. The old woman gets up off the couch and walks up to them.

“How about I escort you out?” she says, which is now the second most polite way that he has been told to get the fuck off someone’s property. Pinako must have a talent for that. She leads them through the living room, opens up the door, and then gestures for them to leave.

Roy says, “Thank you for the hospitality, Ms. Rockbell,” even though he knows that he should keep his stupid mouth shut and get as far away from this place as he can.

“I know who you are,” Pinako Rockbell says, “I only let you in this house for fear you’d burn it down.” No reference to her son- no reference to making her granddaughter an orphan. She just knows that he’s the “Hero of Ishval”. She doesn’t know the more specific reason that she should hate him.

He doesn’t know if he feels relieved by that or if it makes him feel even sicker to his stomach.

“Stay away from those boys,” she orders. Roy doesn’t think that he could find his voice even if he tried. Hell, he doesn’t know what he’d say. Luckily, Hawkeye does it for him.

“I’m sorry, Ms. Rockbell,” Hawkeye says, “but I think that will be up to them.” Ms. Rockbell looks like she might come across the threshold and kill Hawkeye where she stands, but she doesn’t.

Instead, with enough ice to freeze a Briggs’s soldier, she says, “Get the hell off my property. _Both_ of you.” Then, she slams the door in their face.

“You know,” Roy says, trying his hardest to joke, “I think that she wants us to leave.”

“I never could have figured that out, sir.” They meet eyes, and then Hawkeye’s lips curl into a smile. Suddenly, they’re laughing on the way off the Rockbell porch. They laugh far harder than they should at something that’s really not funny, but he _needs_ this right now. He thinks that Hawkeye might need it too.

 

 

They hustle back to the train station, and get there just in time to catch the one back to East. They get a pair of seats facing each other at the back of the train, and they have enough room to lounge around a little, not that they would in uniform, but it’s always nice to have the option. This way they aren’t crowded and if nothing else, they each get a window seat. 

Roy watches out the window as the train starts, and then he watches the countryside pass until Resembool is just a speck in the distance. He hopes to put that one into a little box in his brain and not think about it for months to come. Hawkeye doesn’t let him do that.

“So,” she says gently, “Rockbell Automail.” Roy nods. He doesn’t want to have acknowledge this if he doesn’t have to.

“Those were the doctors that you killed back in Ishval, weren’t they?”

“Yes,” he admits, “they were.” He killed that little girl’s parents. He made Winry Rockbell an orphan.

“You could fix all those mistakes that you let eat you up inside,” Hawkeye says.

“No, I couldn’t,” he says, “you saw what it did to those kids.” 

“You aren’t a kid, sir.” She’s right and he knows it. He _isn’t_ a kid. Those kids are geniuses, but he has more practical experience. Maybe he could-

“I don’t want to go down this road,” he says, as much to himself as to her. He doesn’t want to have this conversation. He _definitely_ doesn’t want to have it at the back of a public train.

“Sir-”

“I’m done talking about this, Lieutenant.” Hawkeye looks ready to argue, but she lets out an angry breath and looks out the window instead. She must know that it’s not worth arguing with him at the moment. She wouldn’t have been able to get anything else out of him during this trip anyway.

Roy does not speak for the rest of the trip except for what’s necessary. Neither does Hawkeye. It’s an unpleasantly quiet journey, but he doesn’t want to hear her rationalize human transmutation any more than he has to. He doesn’t think that he would be able to fight her off any longer. He’s felt swayed by the idea too many times. The thoughts of an easy fix are growing in his mind, and he’s not as deterred as he should be by the results of the Elrics’ attempt.

He just keeps thinking: _I could do it better._

 

 

 

Hawkeye, thankfully, does not bring up the topic again. That does not mean that the topic dies.

Seeing the Elrics again probably doesn’t help. Becoming Ed’s CO probably doesn’t help. Helping the Elrics plot to find the philosopher's stone  _definitely_ doesn't help. He just keeps thinking that maybe with the philosopher’s stone, he could fix all his mistakes. Hell, maybe he doesn’t even _need_ a philosopher’s stone.

Roy kills the idea, every time that it springs up in his brain. He kills the idea and instead helps the people that he can. He sows the seeds of change and bides his time until he has the power to fix things. He reminds himself that he can do more good healthy and whole than he can by taking a chance that might not pan out.

He _can_ help the Elrics. He can mentor them and help them fix their own mistakes. He can help Hawkeye and Hughes and all his subordinates and everyone in the military and everyone in Amestris, if he just continues on his path. He can make the world better while he’s living in it.

 _But_ , a voice reminds him, _you cannot bring back the dead. Not without human transmutation._

He tells that voice to shut up, but it never seems to work. 

  
  


Roy is called to Central City for a few weeks by the Fuhrer himself, and he tries to take that as a point of pride rather than as a point of dread. He worries that a personal summons from the Fuhrer isn’t actually a good thing, but he can’t know that for sure. It might just be investigating The Freezing Alchemist. It might just be as simple as the new Fuhrer says that it is. 

Even if it is that simple, though, that doesn't stop all of his worries. He worries that Hughes will want to spend time with both him and Hawkeye at the same time. He and Hawkeye haven’t started really talking again after what happened in Resembool, and he’s certain that it will be awkward when they finally do start talking again. This worry is confirmed the first day that he’s back in Central. Hughes uses his work line for a personal call, which isn’t professional but isn’t surprising from Hughes at all.

Roy picks up the phone.

“Roy!” Hughes says, “it’s so good to hear from you!”  
  
“I didn’t call you and I haven’t said anything yet,” Roy says. 

“But _now_ you have,” Hughes says, “so I just said “good to hear from you” a little preemptively.” Roy tries to be irritated by that, and he fails miserably. He’s just glad to hear his goofy best friend’s voice.

“What do you want?” he asks. He tries to at least _sound_ irritated, but he knows that Hughes won’t fall for it.

“You, me, and Hawkeye going for drinks.”

“All three of us?” Roy asks.

“Yes, all three of us,” Hughes says.

“I think that I may need to pass,” Roy says, “I have so much paperwork to do.”

“We both know you don’t do your own paperwork,” Hughes says.

“Hawkeye has a lot of paperwork to do?” Roy tries.

“Come on, you two are only going to be in Central for a few weeks. Come out for a drink. Hawkeye says she’s barely gotten three words out of you recently.” Roy knows that Hughes and Hawkeye talk to each other independently of him, but it never ceases to surprise him somehow, hearing about it. They’re friends outside of him and Hughes has known Hawkeye longer than he’s know Roy, but it’s still strange to him. Maybe Hawkeye is right when she implies that he’s self-absorbed.

“I’ve said four words,” Roy says, just to be obstinate. But Hawkeye _is_ right, he hasn't been able to talk to her properly lately. It’s been a year and a half since he first recruited Fullmetal and about half of one since he _became_ Fullmetal, but his thoughts of human transmutation are getting worse and more frequent, and it’s gotten harder not to just do some cursory research, just in case. He’s found it harder to just _talk_ lately. Any time he holds a conversation it ends up going down a terrible road and he ends up drowning in guilt.

Contrary to what Hawkeye says, he does not _like_ drowning in guilt.

“Royginald Howard Mustache-”

“Exactly none of those names are right,” Roy says, “hell, I don’t even _have_ a middle name.”

“Now you do, congratulations.”

“Never call me Howard again.”

“Come get a drink with me and I’ll consider that,” Hughes says, and Roy can _hear_ the smirk in his voice. He loves Hughes, he does, but he doesn’t know how Gracia puts up with him every single day. Roy would go crazy.

“Hughes-”

“And bring Hawkeye, for god’s sake,” Hughes says, “I haven’t seen either of you since Ed’s test.” Roy sighs.

“Alright,” Roy says, “but keep the pictures to a minimum.”

“I make no promises,” Hughes says. Then, he hangs up the phone. Roy sighs. That means he’ll have to endure multiple scrapbooks full of pictures of the Hughes girls. Roy resigns himself to that fact as he steels himself to talk to Hawkeye.

He’s not fully prepared by the time that he sees her, but he figures that now is as good a time as any.

“Lieutenant?” Roy asks.

“Sir?”

“Are you free tonight?” Roy asks. He almost recoils at the phrasing of his words. _Are you free tonight?_ God, he sounds like a pre-teen awkwardly asking someone on a date. He was smoother than this when he was an actual pre-teen.

“What would I be doing, sir?” Hawkeye asks.

“Hughes wants us all to go out for a drink.”

“Ah,” Hawkeye says, “so this is _personal business._ ” She somehow makes “personal business” sound like a dirty word. He thinks that she would have preferred to hear he wanted her to run a mission.

“Yes.”

“You haven’t talked to me about anything _personal_ in months.” He can hear the thinly concealed anger in her tone, and it chills him. Sometimes it feels like Hawkeye’s always holding in a maelstorm of rage right below the surface.

“I’m sorry,” he says, “just please, Hughes wants to see you.” Hawkeye cracks a smile, and suddenly, the depths of anger that he glimpsed have vanished as though they were never even there. He wonders sometimes if he just imagines them.

“And you think that’s a draw?” she asks wryly.

“You miss him too,” Roy says. Hawkeye smiles a little, and he knows that’s her agreeing with him.

“Alright,” she says, “I’ll come.”

 

 

So that’s how they all three end up there in that bar, the Ishval bunch all back together again. They each have their drink of choice and they're ready to talk each other's ears off, just like old times. Hughes always goes for the fruity drinks that a lot of men deem as too feminine, and today he goes for a strawberry daiquiri. Roy always went for whisky, even back when he was broke. Now that he’s a lieutenant colonel he can afford _pot stilled_ whisky, which of course, he buys. It’s far better. Hawkeye isn’t much of a drinker, but she is an _elegant_ one. She tends to order merlot, with an occasional pinot noir mixed in for variety. She likes her wines as dry as her sense of humor. 

Hughes takes a sip of his strawberry daiquiri and then looks across the table at Roy.

“So,” he says, and he takes another sip _, mid sentence,_ “what’s the buzz?”

“We’ve been called to Central,” Roy says. Hughes rolls his eyes.

“I don’t need a state pocket watch to figure that out, Roy,” Hughes says, “I was asking why.”

“Apparently, our old friend MacDougal has made an appearance here,” Roy says.

“You mean the Freezing Alchemist? The one that deserted?”

“That’s the one,” Roy says. He doesn’t have fond memories of MacDougal (the only fond memories he has of Ishval involve Hawkeye or Hughes) but the man was clearly haunted by what they were doing. Roy wouldn’t even blame him for deserting if he didn’t go and join a terrorist sect.

“I’ve been tasked with bringing him in,” Roy says. Hughes grins.

“Are you sure that’s the best plan? You’re useless against water.” Roy glares, but Hawkeye snorts.

“That’s what _I_ said," she says, and Hughes grins in response. 

“I am perfectly capable against all sorts of alchemy, thank you very much,” Roy says.

“I don’t know, Roy,” Hughes says, “you can’t do alchemy without a transmutation circle like Ed can. That’s pretty impressive.”

“It is,” Roy says. Then his brow furrows.

“How do you even know that’s how he does it, anyway? I didn’t know you paid that much attention to alchemy.”

“He transmuted Elicia a toy without even drawing a circle,” Hughes says, “it was kind of hard to miss.” Maybe that would be hard for an alchemist to miss, but most non-alchemists don’t have enough of an understanding of how alchemy works to even notice the absence of a circle. Hughes did, and he’s downplaying a legitimately astute observation.

That’s one thing that he loves about his best friend. Hughes is way more observant than he ever lets on. That’s one thing that they have in common.

“When did he transmute Elicia a toy?”

“At their last joint birthday party,” Hughes says, “you know, I’ve thrown him two birthday parties at this point and you’ve done nothing but piss him off. You really should do something nice for him.”

“I’m his commanding officer, not his father figure,” Roy says. If Hughes wants to adopt those boys, that’s just fine. Roy can mentor them from afar and feel just fine about it. The further he stays from Resembool and that particular part of his guilt, the better.

“Doesn’t mean you can’t do nice things for the kid,” Hughes says. Hawkeye snorts.

“Roy Mustang, do something nice for his subordinates?” she asks, “I didn’t think I would ever see the day.”

“I do nice things,” Roy says. At least, he means too. Sometimes he just gets so wrapped up in his own head and plans for the future and research and whatever’s actually in front of him kind of gets the shaft.

“But really, Roy,” Hughes says, far more quietly, “why can he do alchemy without a circle?” Roy sighs. He was hoping he wouldn’t have to answer this question.

“My best guess is that it has something to do with human transmutation,” Roy says.

“That’d be a pretty cool trick to pick up,” Hughes says. Then, he takes another sip of his drink. 

“That _trick_ cost Fullmetal two limbs and his brother his entire body.”

“It did,” Hughes says, “but you’re a grown man, Roy. Surely you’re better at alchemy than a pair of kids.

“A pair of prodigies,” Roy says.

“No, I think that Hughes is right,” Hawkeye says, “you’re better at alchemy than a pair of ten year olds, even if they’re prodigies.”

“Are you two _encouraging_ me to commit a felony?” Roy whisper-hisses. Hughes and Hawkeye share a look that says: _well, yeah?_ The look doesn’t even seem to understand the severity of what they’re suggesting. That doesn’t stop the anger from building within him.

“If you two want to do human transmutation so bad,” Roy whispers, rage boiling to the surface, “draw an array and do it yourselves!” He feels so angry that he could storm out, but they both look legitimately concerned. He can't leave them when they look like that. 

“We just don’t want you to have these regrets,” Hawkeye says, and she sounds so sincere it hurts.

“It won’t work,” Roy says, although it sounds weak to his own ears. He knows he’s trying to convince himself too.

“Alright,” Hughes says, his voice soothing, “it won’t work. We get it. How about we change the topic?”

“Please,” Roy says, then he downs the rest of his whisky as a shot. He stares at the bottom of his tumbler, and wills the whisky to come back. It doesn’t work. Hawkeye takes the glass out of his hand, and sets it on the table. Then she stands up.

“I’ll buy us another round,” she says.

“And I’ll get out my pictures!” Hughes interjects, “you guys haven’t even seen the _cutest_ picture of Elicia yet!” He rips his his pictures out of his back pocket, and holds out one of Elicia in a little pink dress, holding a bunch of dandelions like they’re a proper bouquet.

He looks at little Elicia Hughes and her father’s enormous smile and he thinks about all those dead children, all the children he made orphans when he killed their parents. He thinks about Winry Rockbell and everything that he took from her. God, he doesn’t want to feel like this every time he sees a child or smells smoke, or hears the word Ishval or steps on sand or hears a gunshot or looks at Hawkeye’s eye patch and thinks about where she must have gotten it.

He takes a swig from the new tumbler Hawkeye brought him, and looks at her beautiful face obscured by that eye patch. He wants to fix these things, really fix them. All of them, and if Roy decides to do a little more research because maybe they aren’t so wrong about how to go about doing that, well, the other two never have to know.

 

 

Roy does a bit more research, but nothing that really changes anything until his run in with The Freezing Alchemist. The Freezing Alchemist makes Central City into a giant array, and Roy destroys the transmutation circles that make it up one by one. That plan wouldn’t have worked so well if Central proper wasn’t a _circle._ Come to think about it, a lot of things in Amestris are circles. The entire country is one, after all.

Roy pushes the thought away, and instead decides to broaden his research. He decides to look into different types of arrays, but also, just for curiosity’s sake, the history of the country. How in the _world_ did it end up as a circle? That seems highly impractical. Almost as impractical as that rebellion that occurred recently in Liore.

He feels as though he comes up short on the arrays, but the country’s history. Well, that’s another story. Amestris has had more bloody conflicts than the government ever wants to admit. The worst of these seem perfectly spaced geographically speaking, at least if he remembers correctly. Actually, if Roy has these situated properly in his brain, these worst events form a pentagon. Most of the events seem to have been triggered by nothing, really, conflicts so small that they never should have spiraled into all out massacres… but they did. The military made sure that they all became bloodbaths. Roy looks up at the Amestrian map on his wall again, and stares at the perfect circle that their country forms. He rips the map off of his wall, and then plots each of these terrible, bloody events on the map.

He wants to convince himself that he’s wrong about this, but he can’t. Inside all of the events forms a hexagon, and he’s heard that “tension has been brewing” up North with Drachma. He’s heard of the possibility of going to war there. If he were to add a point for Briggs, there would be a perfect array: a hexagon inside of a pentagon that's inside of a circle.

He feels his blood run cold. This couldn’t have just _happened._ These were too massive, too well-organized. The country is a circle and its bloodiest events in history form an array. This had to be orchestrated over a period of hundreds of years. He doesn’t know how, but he knows that this must have been both intentional and well organized. 

He reaches for the phone, and dials Hawkeye. He gets her to agree to come by his office tonight easily enough, but Hughes is a harder sell. Roy has to promise to go as quickly as possible so that Hughes can get back to his family time soon.

Hawkeye shows up at exactly the scheduled time, and Hughes shows up seven minutes late. Roy thinks that it’s just to prove that he doesn’t want to be here right now.

“This had better be important,” Hughes says, “Elicia wanted to play tea party and I’m missing it.” He seems very put out by that, as if Elicia doesn’t want to play tea party every single day.

“I’ll try not to keep you,” Roy says. He tries not to sound as nervous and off-kilter as he feels.

“Are you alright, sir?” Hawkeye asks. Apparently he doesn’t succeed.

“Just let me show you two what I found,” he says. Roy pulls out his map, and shows them the points of bloodshed and the lines connecting all of them. Then he shows his friends the circle around the pentagon and hexagon. 

“Amestris is a transmutation circle,” Roy says, “someone’s going to transmute the whole damn country.” Hughes looks at him like he’s grown a second head. Hawkeye doesn’t even blink.

“I don’t know who and I don’t know when,” Roy says, “but I know a transmutation circle when I see one.”

“Roy, are you sure that’s what this is? ” Hughes says, and he sounds nervous, cagey almost, “You might be imagining things.”

“No,” Roy says firmly, “I know that this happened. And I know it was intentional. Someone did this on purpose. See all of these massacres? They’re charging it up. This was someone in the military.” Hughes sighs as he takes off his gloves, revealing his red ouroboros tattoo on the back of one of his hands. He remembers Hughes saying he got that before he joined the army because he thought dragons were badass. Roy remembers thinking that was a stupid reason to get a tattoo of an alchemical symbol that means something about infinity.

“Oh Roy,” Hughes says, “I really wish you weren’t so smart.” Roy gets a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. In this moment, he doesn’t feel like his best friend is on his side. He doesn’t feel like his best friend is even his best friend anymore.

“Hawkeye?” he asks. Maybe she can explain what’s going on, or maybe just help him. Instead, her hands go to her eye patch.

Roy’s never seen what’s underneath, but he knows that what he sees should not be there. Hawkeye still has an eye under that patch, but there’s a red symbol where her iris should be. There’s a blood red ouroboros circling another symbol- just like Hughes’s own tattoo. He can’t think of a single reason that Hawkeye would have that where her eye should be. He can’t think of a single reason Hawkeye would have that anywhere at all.

He doesn’t know what this means, but it _can’t_ be good.

“And you call _me_ overdramatic,” Hughes says, and for a moment things feel normal again. That’s Hughes, that’s something that Hughes would say if they were just talking like they always do. He tries to calm himself down, but Hawkeye has an ouroboros tattoo on the white of an eye that she isn’t supposed to have anymore, and she and Hughes seem like they’re _threatening him._ Nothing about this is remotely like normal.

Roy backs up nervously, and his back hits a wall. Suddenly, he doesn’t have anywhere to run. The adrenaline courses even faster, and Roy feels lightheaded.

Fight or flight? His body screams. Fight or flight? But he can’t do _either._ This is Hughes and Hawkeye- his best friend and his- his something. Hawkeye is _something_ to him, beyond the daughter of his master, beyond his adjunct.

He can’t fight them, but he can’t escape either. Apparently, people forgot one important f word humans might do in situations of terror: freeze. And freeze he does, from his feet to his mouth, Roy can’t move a single part of his body.

“Do you want to, or should I?” Hughes asks, holding up a hand that doesn’t look human. It’s encrusted in a black substance and his fingers have turned into claws. Hawkeye rolls her eyes and holds out her gun. For a brief moment, Roy fears she’s going to shoot him.

Instead, she hits him over the head with her gun and his world goes black .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> notes 
> 
> 1\. "royginald" is my own personal favorite long form name for roy. if you've seen that tumblr post with a million different funny long form versions of roy that ends in "royginald" and that would be mine. @disregardcanon is a happening place  
> 2\. in 03, elicia is born on ed's birthday when ed is over for birthday dinner, and then hughes makes sure to make a big deal of it being ed's birthday too on all of elicia's birthdays. even though elicia was born earlier in this timeline, the join birthdays are a fantastic detail i wasn't about to not include.  
> 3\. on the subject of alcohols, i've never actually had pot-still whisky but i'm told it's better than normal whisky? i'd sure hope it is because normal whisky is nasty shit.  
> 4\. i don't like begging for reviews, but like. i don't normally do multichapter fics and this one is going to be LONG. my momentum sometimes dies out and i fear that if i don't have some encouragement on this one, my momentum for it might die and then the fic along with it.

**Author's Note:**

> this fic is a work in progress, so things might change during the writing process. i might even go back and change stuff that's already been posted if i realize that i need to
> 
> if this happens, i'll post an update saying what i changed and where the changes occurred in case anyone starts following this fic seriously


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